Skin Deep

by Gary Braver

  She looked in the mirror again. “It looks great.” When the nurse left and closed the door she said, “I want you to know how grateful I am, given your schedule.”

  He smiled. “No problem.”

  “I’m considering having my nose done. But the recovery period is probably much longer.”

  “Yes. The bruising fades in a week or so, but it takes a month or more for the swelling to go down, especially inside.”

  From the look on his face she could tell he knew what was coming next.

  “Well, I’d like to schedule that, but the only block of time I’ll get is Christmas vacation, and I don’t want to wait six months. Also I don’t want to show up in class all black and blue.”

  “Of course not.” He leaned back in his chair. “So what you’re asking is if I can work this in before I go on vacation and before your summer vacation is over.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, let me ask you why exactly you want to have it done?”

  “Because I hate it. I look in the mirror and all I see is a fat potato in the middle of my face.”

  He smiled. “So, it’s not related to your separation from your husband?”

  “No.”

  He studied her as if trying to assess the veracity of her statement. “Forgive me for being so blunt, but you don’t see this as a way of reestablishing your relationship with Mr. Markarian?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I ask because on occasion we get patients who confuse cosmetic needs for emotional or psychological ones. They’ll show up in a state of urgency because they’re going through an emotional crisis—usually a traumatic loss like the death of a loved one or separation or divorce—and believe that the only solution is aesthetic augmentation.”

  “Well, that’s not the case.”

  Monks nodded. “But you can understand how some people regard a makeover as a way of restoring a lost emotional connection.”

  “Yes, but that’s not me. I don’t want a nose job to win my husband back. I’ve wanted this long before I was even married, since I was a teenager, in fact.”

  He nodded. “Okay.”

  “And if you had doubts?”

  “I’d send you home. But that doesn’t seem to be the case. So what are your expectations from the surgery?”

  “My expectations are that I’ll like the improvement and feel better about myself.”

  He nodded. “And I think you will. I see it all the time. In fact, it’s one of the joys of this profession—seeing how much happier and better adjusted people are after aesthetic procedures. Of course, it’s no guarantee, and we’re very careful to avoid promising folks that a nose job or face-lift will change their lives. But improving one’s appearance will improve one’s confidence, especially in establishing intimate ties with others.”

  “I can see how rewarding that must be.”

  “Yes, and especially so if a patient has a physical deformity or some disfiguring ailment. It’s also true if something in a person’s appearance constantly bothers them. If every time you walk by a mirror your heart sinks when you look at your sunken chin or narrow cheeks—”

  “Or nose.”

  “Or nose. If it’s a constant source of anguish, then something should be done about it. I’ve had patients whose lives were turned around following cosmetic surgery. One woman had a prominent nose and a tiny chin. She hated her appearance, saying she looked like a troll. The sad thing was, she did. After a nose job and some jaw reconstruction, she not only looked like a different person, she was a different person. She’d come in and say how her life had been transformed. In the past she’d avoid social engagements, parties, and bars. She never dated. Now she’s a woman about town, dating and partying. Like others, she changed from the outside in. The procedures released someone who lived deep inside but who needed the physical transformation to bring her out.”

  “I’m not sure that’s me, but I want a new nose.”

  “Then, I think something should be done. Because it’s not so much your nose but how you feel about it.” He moved closer and slowly turned her face to profile and back.

  Again, she wondered why he never had cosmetic work done. His skin was dry and rough with pockmarks. He also had that distracting mole. Evidently he had no problem with his appearance.

  “You should know that rhinoplasty is the most dramatic alteration of one’s appearance. And since your nose is measurably out of harmony with the rest of your face, the change will be significant.” As he spoke, he ran his finger along her nose to demonstrate the changes and she followed him in the hand mirror. “What we’d do is remove the hump and narrow the cartilage pyramid and reshape the tip and base, which will open the plane of your face, making your cheekbones more prominent.”

  All her life Dana regarded her appearance in segments. She had large gray-green eyes, high cheekbones, a round forehead, and feathery eyebrows. Her chin was short, squared off, and clefted. Her hair was a sandy blond like her mother’s, its thickness probably from her father’s Mediterranean genes. Also from his side, the Peloponnesian nose that overshadowed the rest. It was what the boys in high school saw first at a dance. If it weren’t for her breasts and a shapely body, she would never have been asked to dance.

  “Ironically, people may not even know that you had it done. They’ll notice an improvement and ask if you lost weight or are doing your hair differently. But they’ll pick up the change in your spirit, your increased well-being. And that’s what this is all about.”

  He then moved to his computer and maneuvered the mouse. “Unfortunately, I’m tightly booked, but it’s possible I can put together a surgical team during off-hours or a weekend.”

  “That would be great.” She could barely hide her excitement.

  “But it may be on very short notice.”

  “That’s no problem.” She’d give him her cell phone number.

  “Fine.” Then he asked about any allergies, hay fever, rhinitis, nasal congestion, any past ailments such as sinusitis, asthma, bronchitis, any injuries to her nose, et cetera. She had none.

  “Good,” he said when he was finished.

  There was a queer expression on his face that made his cheeks dimple and his eyes glitter. “The other day you’d asked about Versed and possible side effects.”

  “Side effects?”

  “You know, saying the unexpected.”

  She felt herself tense up. “Uh-huh.”

  He smiled. “Well, yes, I’d be delighted to have dinner with you.”

  It took her a moment to realize what he was saying, then she was instantly mortified. He was no doubt sugarcoating some outrageous thing she had babbled in front of the nurse. “Oh, God.”

  “Really, it was amusing, and a first.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about.” Then he said, “So I guess your marital status has not changed. You’re still separated.” He looked down at her naked ring finger.

  “Yes. We’re considering a divorce.” The word still felt alien to her. Especially since that wasn’t completely true. Steve certainly was not considering it, and she only experimentally.

  Monks nodded; his face had an odd look of speculation. “I’m sorry for the unpleasantness of that, no matter what the outcome.”

  “Thank you.”

  A slightly crooked smile spread across his mouth. “How about this Saturday evening?”

  Her head was spinning. “Yes, sure, of course,” she said, without thinking if she had anything else scheduled, deciding that whatever it was she’d get out of it.

  “Fine,” he said with a wide grin. “And we’ll celebrate your new beginning. But I do have a favor to ask: that you please don’t mention it to anyone, even Mrs. Walker. If word gets out, it might end up in the newspapers. And we both can do without that.”

  “Of course.”

  All the way home she fought the urge to call Lanie.

  50

  SUMMER 1975

  “You’
re still seeing her.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “It’s all over your face.”

  But he was lying. And she knew it—as if a ticker tape were playing across his forehead: Yes. I see her. I see her every day. I kiss her in the halls. After class at her house. I touch her. She touches me. I want to fuck her.

  But he said none of that. Yet she knew. And she found out.

  One July afternoon four months after the play, he and Becky were walking hand in hand to the Capitol Cinema to see Jaws. Even though it was a Saturday matinee, the line was long. As they made their way to the ticket booth, she said how scary the film was supposed to be. He smiled and gave her a hug that she turned into a kiss. At that same moment, a car pulled up to the curb no more than ten feet away. It was Lila.

  Because of the crowd, she said nothing. She didn’t have to. Her eyes shot tracer bullets at them.

  Instantly, his arm fell from Becky’s shoulder like a log. He stepped out of the ticket line and moved to the car’s open window to say it was nothing, that they had just bumped into each other, that Becky was giving him a friendly hello kiss—but Lila blazed at him long enough for her fury to sear his brain. Then without a word she pulled away.

  “What’s her problem?”

  He made a weak shrug. “I dunno.”

  “I’m sorry, but I think she’s weird. She controls you like you’re her puppy.”

  In a weak attempt to defend Lila, he said, “That’s not true.”

  “Yes, it is. She’s jealous of you seeing anybody, which is wicked sick.”

  “She’s not sick,” he muttered.

  “She’s obsessed. You’re all she has.”

  But it was true, all of it. Lila owned him—body and soul. When she got mad and withdrew into her shell it left him feeling desperate. It was her ultimate strategy and his ultimate weakness. He’d do anything to win her back. Anything for her love and approval, including the extinguishing of his own will.

  “Drop it, okay?” he said.

  Becky made a face and shrugged it off.

  He bought the tickets, though the last thing he wanted to do was see a movie about a killer shark. But they did, and for two hours he tried to lose himself in the action. But it was impossible. Lila’s face of rage glowed like an ember in the fore of his brain, making him dread going home. He’d prefer the shark.

  After the movie, he walked Becky home. She was noticeably cooler, saying only that she hoped things worked out with his stepmother.

  Lila was not home when he returned. Nor was his father. Grateful he had been spared an encounter, he went to bed early, hoping to sink into oblivion. He was deep asleep when the door slammed open and the light went on. Lila’s face was white stone. The clock radio said 12:06. His heart instantly slammed against the walls of his chest. “Wha-what?”

  She moved closer and he could smell the sugary haze of the Shalimar. Also the dark fumes of scotch. “So, you’re not seeing her.” Her voice was like broken glass.

  “We just went to a movie.”

  She stepped closer. “Is that right—just went to a movie?”

  “Yeah, no big deal.”

  Something was in her hand behind her. “No big deal, huh? You’re seeing her,” she hissed.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re seeing her. You’re dating her. You’re boyfriend-girlfriend.”

  “No, we’re not. Wh-what’re you talking about?”

  “What am I talking about? I’m talking about this.”

  Her hand snapped up with a photo of Becky. She turned it over. “With love forever, Becky.”

  “Where did you get that?” Before she could respond, he said, “That’s old.”

  “Is that right?” She turned it over. “Then why’s it dated two weeks ago? Every photograph’s got a date printed.”

  He felt the blood seep out of his head. “You took that from my lockbox. You had no right.”

  Her breasts swelled like armor. “Don’t you tell me what I have a right to. Everything in this house I have a right to. It belongs to me, Buster. Everything, this room, your furniture, your precious lockbox. Everything, including you.”

  “We’re just friends.”

  “Just friends?”

  “Yes,” he pleaded. She looked positively insane.

  “Yeah, then how do you explain this?” In the other hand was a wrapped Trojan condom.

  He nearly threw up when he recognized it.

  “You’ve fucked her.”

  “N-no. I swear.”

  She closed in on him. “You’re lying.”

  “N-no, I’m not.” And it was true. He and Becky had made out, even explored each other’s bodies with their hands. But he had not had sexual intercourse with her. But how could he convince Lila? He wished he could transport the truth from his mind into hers so she’d believe him, so she’d be normal again.

  Her teeth flashed at him. “Admit it. Admit it!” She was at the edge of his bed.

  She looked demonic. “I didn’t,” he whimpered. He started to get up, but she swatted the air in front of his face, and he didn’t know if she missed on purpose. “I didn’t. I swear to God.” He put his hands before his face.

  “Then you were planning to. Tell me the truth.”

  “She made me.”

  “What?”

  “She made me get it. She made me go to Bobby d’Onofrio and get one.”

  “How could a cheap little slut who doesn’t weigh a hundred pounds make you get it? Did she twist your arm? Put a gun to your head? Threaten to beat you up?”

  “N-no. She said just in case.”

  “Just in case you fucked the little bitch, right?”

  He nodded.

  “No. You got it on your own because you were planning to make dirty with her.” Lila began to unbutton her blouse. “You want to make dirty? Is that right?”

  He shook his head as she removed her blouse and tossed it on the floor. She was wearing her lacy black bra. “Mom, please no.”

  “Becky Tolland is a little tart. You hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  “A little cheap tart.” With one hand she whipped off her bra and tossed it on the floor.

  “Wh-wh-what are you doing?”

  “What am I doing?” She unzipped her skirt and let it fall to the floor.

  Underneath she wore panties and black lace-top stockings. Through the material he could see the thicket of red hair.

  “I’m going to show you the error of your ways.” She peeled off her panties. Then she slipped off one stocking and tossed it on the pile. The other stocking she held on to. He made a move to get off the bed. “Oh, no,” she said. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  He tried not to glare at the tuft of red hair just inches from his face.

  “Take off your pajamas.” Her voice was a harsh whisper.

  “No, please.”

  “Yes, because I’m going to show you what real dirty is, not some teenybopper slut thing.”

  “Do I have to?”

  And in a mimicking voice she whined, “Yes, you have to.”

  Her hot googly eyes bore down on him, making his hand slide up his front to undo his top. She did not take her eyes off his as he removed it. “And your pants.”

  “Please no.” His voice was barely audible. He could feel the force of her will scorch dead his own. He removed his bottoms and brought his hands in front of him.

  When he was naked, she said, “Now lie back.”

  He lay back. Lila stood with her legs slightly spread and a single nylon stocking in her hand.

  “Put your hands behind your head.” Her voice had softened.

  “What?”

  “Put your hands behind your head. It’s a little game.”

  He wanted to protest, but couldn’t. He put his hands behind his head, aware of his exposure.

  “You keep them there because I’m going to give you som
ething you won’t get from little Miss Becky Tolland.”

  He braced for her to hit him, but instead she draped the nylon across his legs and dragged it across his feet back and forth so that it tickled. Then she trailed it up one leg to his thigh then down the other leg to his feet then back up the other leg. He had no idea what she was doing, but the tickling sensation was not unpleasant. He felt himself begin to relax.

  “Does that feel good?”

  He nodded.

  “Good,” she cooed and dragged the stocking across his belly then down his thigh and across to the other thigh then back. She did that a few times, and with each the circle got smaller and smaller. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

  Her eyes had that askew cast, but they did not look wild. He nodded.

  “I didn’t hear you.”

  “Yes, very pretty.”

  “Prettier than her?” The stocking crossed just below his genitals and he flinched in reflex.

  “Yes. Beautiful.” His body was beginning to hum.

  “Good. Close your eyes.”

  He closed his eyes and felt the stocking brush his penis like a feathery snake. He opened them a slit and watched it crawl down his legs then up again, and he spread his legs a bit to let it pass. He felt himself grow erect and brought his hands down to cover himself.

  “No. Hands back where they were. And no eyes.”

  He closed his eyes as she continued teasing him with the stocking.

  “Did Miss Becky ever do this to you?”

  “No.”

  “Or this?”

  He groaned in pleasure as she curled the stocking around him like fingers. “No.”

  “You going to see her again?”

  “No. I promise. I swear…”

  “Good.”

  As she continued to move the stocking up and down his body, curling around him, he arched and squirmed to catch it, trying to anticipate its passes and teasing curls, trying to lure it to wrap itself around his shaft and bring him to full pleasure. For several long liquid moments as he undulated in place, all he concentrated on was that stocking. That black shiny lace-top stocking. He wanted it. He wanted it. No, he wanted Lila.

  He opened his eyes. “Please,” he begged. “Please.”