by Gary Braver
“We’re working on it. How are you doing?”
“Pretty good.”
“Get you kids something cold to drink?” Neil said.
“Diet Pepsi,” Lily said. Courtney, the girlfriend, nodded, and Neil left to get the drinks.
“Doing some shopping?” Steve asked.
“Yeah.” She flopped the Gap bag she was holding against her leg but didn’t elaborate.
“You and your dad saw a pretty good game the other night.” Neil had gotten box seats.
“What game?”
“The only game in town—Sox and Yankees.”
“Oh, that. Yeah.”
“You were lucky. You saw history in the making—that unassisted triple play. I don’t think there’s been more than a handful in major league history, and probably never at Fenway.” It was the sixth inning with no outs and two men on base and moving when Rodriquez hit a line drive to the shortstop, Alex Cora, who stepped on second to retire Jeter and tagged Giambi before he could return to first.
“I guess.” She looked at Courtney and shrugged.
“You did see it, right?”
“We left early.”
“You did?”
“I don’t like baseball that much.”
“We can’t all be perfect.”
Lily made an awkward smile.
“But it was fun seeing the crowd and all,” Courtney said.
Neil returned with the drinks. The girls said goodbye, and Neil walked them to the door, where he pulled something out of his wallet for Lily then kissed her on the cheek before they left.
Steve gathered his stuff. “How’s she doing?”
“Better.” Neil began to leave.
“Hey, I thought you saw the game the other night.”
“I did.”
“That’s funny. Talking to the girls I got the impression they went together.”
“Yeah, well, I thought she might enjoy it better if she went with a friend.”
“Sure.”
Neil’s eyes had shrunk to ball bearings. “Is that it?”
“Yeah.”
And Neil walked away.
30
Steve drove up Ruggles and took a right onto Huntington. At the stoplight at Gainsborough he made a U-turn and pulled beside a hydrant in front of Conor Larkins.
“Did you go to my place?
“Did you come upstairs?
“Did you? Did you?”
Conor Larkins was an underground bar with blue awnings and a staircase separating two storefront windows with Guinness signs, Northeastern banners, and stuffed NU huskies behind the glass. His eyes rested on the entrance while waiting for images to solidify out of the fog.
So why not go inside, me boy? Afraid of what you’ll find? Afraid someone will recognize you?
“Hey, didn’t I see you the other night with that woman who got murdered? That stripper from NU? Jeez, it was the same night.”
He took out her photograph. Christ! The more he stared at it, the more she looked like Dana.
“Did you kill me?
“Did you come up to my place for a little action but because you were so scrambled on meds and booze you looked at me, saw Dana, and all that resentment building up since she dumped you suddenly spewed up? Killed me as surrogate?”
Bullshit!
He put the car in gear and moved down Huntington. At its end he cut down to Jamaica Way, where he drove in the slower right-hand lane, his mind wide-open and poised for the sudden zap.
But nothing came back.
He pulled down Payson and parked across the street from 123. Mrs. Sabo’s light was on, but the second-floor apartment looked dead. He tried to recall walking up those steps and ringing the second-floor doorbell and Terry coming down, dressed in her black sheath. He couldn’t get it. Couldn’t even recall what she wore in the restaurant. Nothing but a pocket of night fog.
After maybe twenty minutes he left and drove down Center Street still expecting the brutal epiphany. He stopped at a deserted parking lot with a large Dumpster in back. Nothing. He continued for another couple of miles, stopping to see if the psychic trail would warm.
Nothing. Thank you! Thank you!
But you can’t prove a negative, Bunky. So how did the sunglasses end up at her place? You tell me that.
She came down, I gave them to her, she went up without me. Headed home, slept off the poisons. Meanwhile, somebody else went up there and did her in. Maybe Pendergast.
Good. Your chips and a prayer on him.
The sun had dropped behind the wall of buildings on St. Botolph when he pulled into a spot near his apartment. With his key, he let himself into the front door. On the floor was a large manila envelope with his name on it. Dana’s handwriting. Inside was some mail that had been sent to his Carleton address. And a handwritten note:
Am in town with Lanie. I’ll see you tomorrow at eleven. These came the other day for you. Might want to give them your new address. Dana.
No “Love” or “XOXO.” Just “Dana.” Just plain ole “Dana” as if it were a note to the lawn service guy. “Might want to give them your new address.”
Bitch!
Inside were some bills and magazines. He climbed the stairs to his apartment. All he wanted to do was monkey work—dull mechanical brain stem stuff. So he decided to pay some bills and send notes to the senders informing them of his change of address. He went online and paid the bills. Electric. Telephone. Magazines. He filled out online forms with the change of address. He logged onto his Visa account. He scrolled down his recent purchases. His Conor Larkins bill was listed—$36.18 for the sandwich and drinks. Then his eyes fixed on the entry below that, and for a moment his brain had no reaction.
CENTER STREET LIQUORS, JAMAICA PLAIN MA. 06/02, 6:22 P.M.
Champagne $41.99
The bottle of Taittinger.
For special occasions he always bought Veuve Clicquot, which was his and Dana’s champagne of choice. But maybe they were out and he purchased the Taittinger instead. He could not recall buying champagne. He could not recall stopping at a liquor store.
But Terry Farina had left Conor Larkins to drop off her exam and probably arrived at her place around five thirty. Sometime after that he had called to say she had left her sunglasses behind. Would drop them off.
Stopped to buy champagne…
A soupy horror filled his head. He had gone over there full of meds and booze and smoldering anger.
Oh, sweet Jesus!
31
“Is that me?”
“It could be.”
The left half of the monitor showed a digitally enhanced postop image made from the photo Dr. Monks’s assistant had taken on Dana’s first visit. On the right, the original. By comparison, the tired, strained look had yielded to eyes more open and youthful. She couldn’t help feeling elated at the improvement.
“This is you with upper lid plasty.” With his pen, the doctor demonstrated. “What we’d do is make an incision along the lash line and smile creases here and remove excess fat and skin. Fine sutures close the incision, and after four days you come back to have them removed.”
“And that’s it?”
“That’s it. The actual procedure would take about an hour, recovery in a week or so. If you’re good and apply an ice compact and don’t do any heavy lifting, the bruising will fade fast. You’ll have some discomfort for a couple of days, but we’ll give you something for that.”
It was noon on Friday when she arrived at Dr. Monks’s office. She was taken into a room where she sat in a reclining chair. An assistant applied numbing cream along her smile lines. After a few minutes, Dr. Monks made the needle injections of Restylane. She felt minimal discomfort, and after the procedure he brought her into his office to consult about other possibilities.
He maneuvered the mouse to show her face with both lids done. “As you can see, there isn’t much difference, and I frankly think that the uppers alone will give you the eyes of a woman at least ten ye
ars younger. And maybe Botox treatment for the crease line.”
She was pleased that he wasn’t trying to sell her procedures she didn’t need.
He must have read her mind, because he said, “As a mentor of mine once said, ‘If less is more, least is most.’”
“But my forehead lines stand out.”
“Yes, but the upper bletharoplasty will improve that.”
“What about this crease?” she said, and fingered the crease above her nose. “I’m starting to look like the Allegory of Woe.”
He smiled. He was ready for that and clicked the mouse. On the screen was a shot of her with the crease filled. “This is what Botox will do.”
“Oh, I like that.” The scowl was gone, making her whole appearance more youthful. Monks’s hand was still on the mouse. “I have the feeling that you’ve got more in there.”
“Only because this software is like Mr. Potato Head for plastic surgeons.”
He tapped a few keys and on the screen were new images of her with her chin recontoured. Her lower face looked as if it had been beveled into a graceful V. Gone was the subtle squaring of her jaw from gravity. Gone also were the small wrinkles around her cheeks. The effect was startling—like looking at time-lapse photos of herself aging in reverse. “You took twenty years off my face.”
“On the screen we did, though it’s a pretty good approximation of the results.”
“It’s like modern alchemy.”
“In a way, but wouldn’t you say it still looks like you?”
“Yes.” But it was creepy. The final image could pass for her college graduation photo.
“You had asked about possible rhinoplasty.” He clicked the mouse and the screen lit up with a frontal and profile shot of her with a new nose.
“Oh, my,” she muttered. She had tried to create the effect with her hand since she was fourteen, but she could never have approximated the image that filled the monitor. Gone was the offending beak and in its place a perfectly sculpted reduction that fit the architecture of her face. Also gone was the fat sausage that in her mind’s eye filled her face.
“What do you think?”
Dana felt positively giddy at the transformation. “I love it.”
“And it’s still you, but with a nose that complements your other features.”
“Yes.”
“Good, because our objective is to enhance a person’s appearance while preserving their individuality. You’re a wife, a teacher, a friend, a neighbor, a daughter, and more—not some abstraction.” He turned to her. “So, do you think this is something you’d be interested in?”
“Absolutely. But can it be done before I go back to school?” She wasn’t even sure she was going back, but there was no need to tell him that.
“We’ll see what we can do. As with all my patients, I’ll want to consult with you again,” he said. “I want to get to know you better, to understand how you see yourself and how you think others see you. The reason is that aesthetic enhancement is bound up with inner identity. Our ultimate objective is to achieve what you will be, not what you are. If there’s a new you emerging, we’ll want to project that.” He smiled and locked his eyes on hers.
For a moment she thought she felt something pass between them. “A new me? I’m not even sure what that means.”
“Well, maybe in time you will. But I can tell you that people who’ve undergone cosmetic enhancement are more outgoing, more content with life than they were before. It’s not just a beauty fix but the beginning of a personal, if not spiritual, transformation. A rebirth if you will.”
He made cosmetic surgery sound like a pilgrimage. But as she stared at that image, she understood what drew so many famous people to him. It wasn’t simply his considerable technical expertise, but the sense of his own investment in his patient’s appearance: the theme of all those glowing testimonials on his Web site.
“You took to heart all my needs.”
“You could not have shown more personal commitment to my appearance. You’re the best.”
Many had been signed with love, which wasn’t surprising. In many ways the Aaron Monkses of the world were the embodiment of the archetypal hero that most females yearned for: Prince Charming who could make dreams come true, release Sleeping Beauty with a kiss—in this case with a scalpel. She wondered if he ever became romantically involved with his patients.
“So I think what we’re talking about is an upper lid lift, some Botox for the nose crease, and rhinoplasty, correct? The other stuff is for way down the road should you feel the need.”
“Yes, definitely the nose job.”
He smiled, seeming to enjoy her pleasure. “So, what does your husband think about this?”
“He’s really not a part of the equation.” She knew she could have stopped there, but she had a compulsion to add, “My husband and I are separated.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”
He was probably thinking she was a cliché: separated woman seeks postmarriage makeover. It was irrational, but she wanted him to know that she was moving on and open to new possibilities.
“I think we should discuss scheduling.” He opened his appointments book. “That might be a problem if you’re going back in September. I’m leaving the country for a month on the second of August. Unfortunately the next opening isn’t until September.”
“Any chance of a cancellation?”
“Only slight.” He rocked back in his chair and stared at her for a few moments, thinking.
He wasn’t handsome in the ordinary sense, but strangely attractive—almost androgynous. He had a rounded forehead, a sharp brow, full fleshy lips, and prominent eyes. At the moment those eyes were studying her face with a warm speculation.
“If I can put together a surgical team, it’s possible we can do this on a weekend.”
“Really? That would be wonderful.”
“But I’ll have to know as soon as possible if you’re committed.”
“I’m committed,” she said with a snap of resolve.
He chuckled. “Good. Then I’ll see what I can do. Meanwhile, you can have a copy of these.” He clicked the mouse and the printer began processing the images.
“Thank you,” she said, feeling the urge to throw her arms around him. Instead she shook his hand. As she started to leave, her eyes fell on the far wall. “Those masks look African.”
“Yes, they’re the work of the Masai from Kenya.”
The three masks were carved of dark wood with stylized features. “They’re beautiful.”
“Yes, and what attracted me to them was as much aesthetic as professional,” he said. “Cosmetic surgery is an American form of tribal art. We remove facial scars whereas the Masai and other tribes practice scarification. It’s a kind of facial art form in reverse.”
Each of the three masks showed embossed patterns of scars. “I guess beauty is relative.”
“To an extent, although there are some universals.”
Then her eye fell on the sepia-and-white abstract above his desk. “That print is hauntingly beautiful. It looks Japanese.”
“Yes”—he checked his watch—“I’ll call you in a few days.”
She left the building and headed for her car, feeling a warm buzz at her core. The way he had looked at her was just this side of flirting. But a moment later she chided herself. How positively ridiculous! He wasn’t making eyes at her, he was studying her face the way a cosmetic surgeon is trained to do, probably calculating how much work lay ahead of him. Besides, a physician becoming involved with a patient was unthinkable, especially one who’s world-renowned. So stop flattering yourself. Besides you’re still married, for God’s sake.
As she approached Steve’s car, she glanced up to his office windows. Dr. Monks was looking down at her. Through the half-open blinds he gave her a wave.
Friendly, she told herself. He’s just being friendly. She waved back and proceeded to the car, thinking, I hope he’s not gay.
32
Maybe I really did do it, Steve thought as he waited in the car for Dana.
Maybe inside there’s a dark twin like in that old horror movie Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. In it, he remembered, Spencer Tracy claims that man is not one creature but two—that the human soul is the battleground between an “angel” and a “fiend,” each struggling for dominance. Hoping to separate and purify each element, he develops a potion in his lab but succeeds in bringing only the dark side into being—Mr. Hyde without an angelic counterpart. As Hyde takes over, Jekyll ceases to exist. And by the end, all that’s left is the fiend.
Sitting in the car, Steve wondered if that was what had happened to him. That for one awful moment while lost in a chemical fog, all semblance of his former self had yielded to some id-primitive double.
He peered at himself in the rearview mirror. He looked older, as if his biological clock had fast-forwarded over the last week. More crinkles appeared around his eyes and a few more gray hairs had sprouted in his sideburns. The whites of his eyes seemed dimmer, shocked with tiny red hairlines, maybe from the lack of sleep. Or maybe he was glimpsing signs of madness lurking behind them.
I don’t want to be a killer. I don’t want to be one of the dirtbags I spend my life chasing. Please, God.
He slipped the receipt for the champagne into his pocket when Dana emerged from the clinic. As she made her way toward him, he tried to dispel the clammy alienness in his mind. To concentrate on the moment.
She was wearing white slacks and a mossy green and yellow top with a white jacket over it. Her honey hair bobbed as she approached the car. He forced a cheery smile.
She got into the car and looked at him. “What do you think?”
There was a purple rim along her smile lines. “I don’t see much of a difference.”
“Well, I see a big difference. The lines are practically gone.”
“What about the bruising?”
“That’ll fade in a few days. And I can cover it up with makeup.”
“So, what did he do?”
“It was really pretty simple,” she said, inspecting herself in the visor mirror. “He injected something called hyaluronic acid into the smile lines to fill them out.”