As the landscape became more desolate and even the tiny towns disappeared, giving way to thick, luxuriously green pine forests, the flat land becoming more hilly, Joyce leaned her head back against the seat’s headrest.
She must have fallen asleep, because the next thing she knew they were winding their way up a steep, narrow incline, where signs along the way warned of falling rocks and deep drop-offs.
She straightened up in her seat. “I hope I didn’t snore,” she said sheepishly.
“I didn’t hear anything, missy, ’cept a few trees gettin’ sawed down.” He gave her another sideways glance, eyes twinkling. “Pretty common in these parts.”
She smiled back at him. “Pretty common anywhere I fall asleep—but thanks for the graceful out.”
“All part of the service, missy.”
Then the land flattened out—they must have reached the top of the mountain—and through the thick pine trees she could see the resort looming just ahead, man’s work rising over nature’s.
The big, rambling, turn-of-the-century structure, with its gables and towers and spires, added-on wooden wings alternating with stone, emerged like a gray Victorian cliff against the sky, looking both inviting and mysterious. Beyond the sprawling many-storied building, she glimpsed the frozen lake, its surface smooth as glass, though unreflective.
Well, this could be interesting, she thought.
But instead of pulling up to the wide porch that dominated the front of the building—where caned-back rockers sat empty in a row, bobbing gently in the breeze, as if invisible guests were seated there—Mr. Jensen guided the van along another path, explaining, “You’re on t’other side of the lake, missy.”
The lake, which was rather small by Minnesota standards, was only about a mile long and half a mile across. Joyce made this observation as they traveled the narrow blacktopped road that wound around the water, shading her eyes against the sun as its rays darted in and out of the tops of the pines.
Then the road began to ascend a nature-fashioned cliff that rose magnificently against the back of the lake, and she could see a modern cement building perched on top; the structure looked as if it were a bizarre extension of the cliff, angular cement slabs jutting out in every direction, Frank Lloyd Wright gone just slightly mad.
Mr. Jensen eased the van beneath a cement portico and shut off the engine. He turned to her. “First and last stop on this milk run,” he announced cheerfully.
But Joyce didn’t know if she liked the sound of that; suddenly Mr. Jensen’s folksiness seemed less benign.
And, looking at the burnished-steel front double doors that seemed more appropriate for a vault than a building, she wondered just what the hell she was in for….
“Well, thank you for the pleasant ride,” she said, but he was already getting out. She repeated that, as he opened the door for her.
“Pleasure’s mine, missy, pleasure’s mine,” he was saying, giving the building nervous little looks, as he scurried to the rear and got her little suitcase out, nodded to her and scrambled back into the van, before she could even decide whether a tip was called for.
Then the van was whooshing away behind her, tires crunching on the snow, and she was alone—standing by herself, under the cement portico, small suitcase in hand. Drawing in a deep breath, she moved sluggishly forward toward those doors, as if the suitcase weighed a ton, butterflies fluttering in her stomach.
Entering as Joyce—wondering who exactly she’d be when she finally exited.
Inside, a sterile but not forbidding reception area greeted her, though no human did—all cool gray carpet and chrome, light gray stucco walls, black-and-white modular furniture, a waiting area where nobody was waiting.
Nobody but Joyce.
Was she the only patient here? she wondered. Or did patients arrive in staggered schedules, so they wouldn’t see each other?
Just ahead, the black marble cube of a reception desk sat empty, like an altar awaiting a sacrifice. It was chilly in here, and she thanked God for the fur-lined bomber jacket.
Then, through a doorway just behind the massive desk, a striking woman in a navy suit entered, a folder in hand. She was perhaps twenty-eight, gorgeous, with long black hair, creamy skin, full red lips, deep blue eyes and a button for a nose.
The woman smiled at Joyce, a smile that looked warm but seemed cold, and extended a slender hand.
“Ms. Jones,” the young woman said, “how was your trip?”
“Fine. Lovely, really. What beautiful country.”
“We like it,” the perfect young woman said, as if she were at least partially responsible.
Joyce could not help staring at this woman, who was spectacularly beautiful, as if she had walked out of a Revlon ad. Was she a product of the plastic surgery Joyce was about to receive?
“We have the usual papers for you to sign,” the young woman was saying, “but that will wait for later. Right now, the most important thing is to get you settled into your room.”
Joyce continued to stare. There was something about the receptionist’s eyes that didn’t jibe with the young face. They sat a little too deep in their sockets, and seemed much too mature and … knowing.
Smiling to herself, Joyce knew that if she was correct, and the receptionist had been rebuilt, then she had made the right decision.
“Yes,” the woman said, as if reading Joyce’s mind, “I am one of you.”
“Do you … do you mind if I ask your age?”
A tiny smile tickled full, perfect lips. “Certainly not—thirty-two … now.”
The advertising maven in Joyce noted how effective this “ad” was—having your arriving clients, who might be suffering last-second misgivings, immediately encounter a success story like the receptionist.
“The nurse will see you to your room,” the young woman told her. “And if you need anything at all, just call the front desk. My name is Sarah.”
Suddenly, as if materializing, a woman in white appeared at Joyce’s side, startling her. She was as unattractive as Sarah was beautiful—tall and mannishly muscular, dull brown hair pulled back from her face, which was as lumpy as putty and about the same color, tiny close-set eyes, bulbous nose, thin lips set in a patronizing smile, Mrs. Potato Head features stuck haphazardly on.
No I.D. tag, but her name could only be Broomhilda.
Joyce smiled warily at the nurse.
“Come,” Broomhilda said, and pivoted on her heels, walking away from Joyce so quickly that she had to scurry down the unadorned hall to catch up.
They took an elevator—a silent, interminably long ride—to the fourth floor, and then went down another anonymous hall to a white door numbered 417.
With a hand smaller than a catcher’s mitt, the nurse opened the door, flinging it wide, and gestured with her head for Joyce to enter.
Joyce did.
The blankness of the hallways did not extend to the rooms, anyway this one, which was almost lavishly decorated, like a really nice suite at the Marriott: cherry-wood furniture in the Chippendale style, navy and gold tapestry drapes and matching bedspread, floral watercolor paintings in gilded frames, and in one corner, a well-outfitted kitchenette.
Joyce smiled, pleased with, and relieved by, her accommodations—she had pictured a dreary little cell—and slung her Vuitton suitcase onto the bed, which was the only telltale sign in the room that this wasn’t a hotel suite: It was a regular hospital bed.
The mannish nurse brushed briskly by her to the closed heavy drapes and drew them aside, pointing to the view of the lake below—it was breathtaking!—then opened up a cabinet to reveal a 27-inch television … no high-up, wall-mounted TV for this hospital room.
Finally, the nurse stood silently, like a bellhop waiting for a tip, before clearing her throat and instructing, “Dr. Carver will see you in his office on the first floor in one half hour.”
As the nurse exited the room, she cast Joyce a glance over her shoulder, saying, “My name, by the way, is Hilda.
”
Then the door closed and Joyce thought, Well—half-right anyway….
Joyce waited only a few minutes in a small, spartan outer office, where another lovely receptionist sat—this one a blonde with cheekbones like Julia Roberts but not the wide mouth—providing further reassurance as to the quality of the clinic’s work.
The receptionist rose, said, “Dr. Carver will see you now,” and ushered Joyce personally to the inner office door, opening it, whispering, “You’ll be so happy….”
The office was surprisingly small, with a heavy cherry desk and matching files, white stucco walls wearing framed diplomas, a window on the lake, and a wall of reference books and mementos and family pictures behind the desk chair.
And, of course, the doctor himself, who rose from that chair, a formidable figure in a Brooks Brothers gray suit with black and white tie (no white smock for this one!) with his hands spread in a gesture of welcome. Perhaps forty, he was tall, wide-shouldered, sturdily built, with a dark complexion and very dark hair and heavy dark eyebrows—he reminded her a little of the actor Mandy Patinkin, though more slender, brown eyes soothing behind wire-rim glasses.
“Joyce,” he said, with a disarming smile. “I’ve heard so much about you—I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
As she approached the desk he offered his hand, which she shook; his grasp was firm and warm.
“And I you, Dr. Carver.”
“No formalities between us, Joyce. We’re friends—partners in your new life. Call me Stan.”
“All right … Stan.”
“Please have a seat.” He gestured to the padded burgundy chair in front of the desk.
“Thank you,” she said, knees feeling weak, knowing that her fate—and face—were in this man’s hands.
He leaned back in his black leather chair; to the right of him, the picture window offered another spectacular view on the frozen lake. “How do you like the accommodations?” he asked, with a tiny smile that said he knew what her answer would be.
“Oh, my room,” she responded, “it’s lovely.”
“I think you’ll soon see that we do everything in our power to ensure that your stay here is a pleasant one.”
The next ten minutes or so consisted of small talk. Dr. Carver told her the history of Chestnut Mountain Retreat, which had begun as one of the Kellogg brothers’ health spas in the early 1900s, then became a ski resort for decades, until several mild snowless winters caused the popular vacation site to fall on hard times.
“The X-Gen people had been looking for a rather remote site to build this clinic,” Dr. Carver said. “I was—am—on their board of directors, and called Chestnut to their attention—it was scheduled for demolition. What a tragedy that would have been!”
“I’m surprised it isn’t on the register of historic buildings,” Joyce said.
“Well, the government didn’t recognize Chestnut’s value, but X-Gen did. You see, Joyce, that’s the specialty of this unique company—possessing the vision to look at something society has discarded and recognize the potential that remains within. X-Gen bought Chestnut, converted it into a health spa and built this clinic, on the resort grounds across the lake. Should a patient need an extended recovery, what nicer surroundings could you imagine?”
“I couldn’t.” She gazed out at the frozen lake. “I love this country—my family vacationed in Bemidji, but I’ve never been this far north before.”
“You’re barely still in America,” he said with that disarming smile.
She was beginning to wonder why all the chitchat, when it became clear to her.
“Now, Joyce, I need for you to go into the next room and remove your clothing.” He gestured to a closed door next to the bookcase behind his desk. “You’ll find a robe, and just knock on the door when you’re ready for me to join you.”
Obviously he’d wanted some time for them to get to know each other, however superficially. He was about to look her over head to toe, like a classic car restorer checking out every hubcap, taillight and door handle on a ’57 Chevy.
Feeling like a ’42 Hudson, she nodded and rose from the chair.
The room she entered was even smaller than the doctor’s office, a typical examination room: padded table with its white protective paper that had always reminded her of what a butcher wrapped meat up in; a counter arrayed with various jars of tongue depressors, cotton balls and such; blood pressure unit on one wall; and a wall rack of magazines that dated to Clinton’s first term.
She took off her things, primly hiding her underwear beneath the other folded items on the counter, and slipped on the white terry-cloth robe with the resort’s insignia on the breast pocket, thankful it wasn’t one of those ugly thin cotton hospital gowns. Then she rapped once on the door, and went over to the table and sat on its edge, paper crinkling, and waited, legs dangling, wondering if she should lie down.
The door opened.
“I want you to stand here,” Dr. Carver instructed, pointing to the center of the room.
She complied.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Yes.” She let the robe fall to the floor.
He flipped a wall switch, turning on a light in the center of the ceiling, just overhead, bathing her in its brightness. She felt like a fried pie at McDonald’s.
His eyes, before so soft and friendly, turned hard and analytical, though his touch remained both gentle and clinical, as he examined her face, forehead, eyes, nose, cheeks, mouth, chin, neck, then her torso, arms, breasts, stomach, his fingers poking, probing, and finally her buttocks, inner thighs, knees and even her feet.
Throughout, she held her breath, taking only tiny gulps of air. Now she knew how a bug under a microscope felt.
At last he said, “You can go ahead and get dressed, Joyce, and, when you’re ready, join me in my office, please.” Then he flicked off the bright overhead light and slipped out. She reached for her clothes and hurriedly threw them on, vaguely embarrassed, mildly humiliated.
Back in his office, with Dr. Carver once again behind his desk and Joyce seated in front of him, the doctor’s warm, friendly demeanor returned.
“You’re in excellent condition,” he told her.
She smiled a little.
“If most women your age had your figure, Joyce, guys like me would be out of business.”
She smiled more, the embarrassment, the humiliation easing away.
“But we do have a lot of work to do,” he added.
Her smile faded.
“How much work?” she asked.
“A woman’s face ages faster than her body, in many instances. As I say, your body could pass for a woman ten years your junior … but we have to make sure you can pass for twenty years younger. Understood?”
“Understood.”
He leaned forward in his chair, looking down at a piece of notepaper on the desk. “Brow lift, face lift, blepharoplasty—that’s your eyes—neck tuck, breast augmentation, inner arm lift, tummy tuck, thigh and knee liposuction….”
She gasped.
“I don’t really think you need cheek implants—sometimes they tend to slide out of place—and, anyway, your bone structure is just fine.”
“Well, at least that’s something,” she said glumly.
He made a tent with his fingertips. “And I might suggest augmentation on your upper lip … to make it fuller,” he said. “I use alloderm instead of collagen because it’s permanent…. I make small incisions in the corners of your mouth and thread the alloderm through….”
“Okay,” she interrupted. “You’re drifting into the more-information-than-I-need area, Doctor … Stan. Just do it, okay?”
“Okay. But most patients like to know what they’re getting into.”
“What is fine. How is irrelevant.”
He jotted a notation on the piece of paper.
She shifted in her chair. “Isn’t this all a bit excessive?” she asked. “I mean, I like my room, but I don’t wa
nt to spend a year recuperating there, or am I headed over to Chestnut and the rocking chairs?”
“Neither.” He put the pen down and looked at her. “A team of doctors will be performing all the procedures at once.”
Her mouth fell open. “Is that possible?”
“Not only possible, but we do it frequently, here, with great success. Oh, I’m sure it must sound a little unorthodox—”
“A little? Won’t I be in terrible pain?”
“Not at all,” he assured her. “You’ll be heavily medicated, then gradually weaned off the drugs. Don’t worry—our patients feel very little discomfort.”
“Well … all right,” she said halfheartedly, not knowing whether to believe him or not: She knew a sales pitch when she heard it. This seemed like one hell of a lot of surgery to have at one time; then again, wouldn’t it be nice to have it all over and done with?
“All right, Joyce,” Dr. Carver said, bringing their consultation to a close. “I’ll see you in the morning. You’re not to eat any solids the rest of the day, and you’re not to eat or drink anything after midnight tonight. Hilda will give you more complete instructions.”
Back in her room, Joyce opened the sliding glass door to the cement balcony and stepped out into the cold late afternoon air; the sun, just beginning to set, was turning the sky purple and pink, casting long shadows over the iced-over lake and the sprawling resort across the way, which from her balcony looked like a child’s Victorian playhouse.
She returned inside and got out her flannel gray nightgown and slipped it on, then settled into the hospital bed, elevating it a little so she could watch the TV. In the middle of the national news, Hilda served a less than sumptuous supper of chicken broth, lemon Jell-O and iced tea, little of which Joyce ate.
Nothing on TV seemed to hold her interest and she used the remote to turn it off with a click that seemed weirdly loud to her. She reached for a mystery novel she’d set on the nightstand and, settling further in the bed, began to read. Around eight o’clock, Hilda arrived again and gave her two blue pills with a small cup of water, to help her sleep, she said.
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