I ignore him. “What else?”
He sighs. “You actually have rather nice cheekbones, though your chin is on the weaker side. Oftentimes when a patient undergoes rhinoplasty, I also recommend a chin implant to balance the nose.”
“My forehead,” I offer. “I think it’s too high. I saw something online, something about hairline repositioning.”
He instructs me to pull my hair back in a ponytail position. I gather it all in my hand, and he leans close. Looks at it from all angles. “Your hairline is fine. That’s not a procedure I offer at my practice anyway, but if I did, I wouldn’t perform it on you. There’s nothing wrong with it.” It’s written on his face that he either thinks I can’t afford any of these procedures, or he’s worried I’m going to be in here ten times per year.
“What about the liposuction and breast implants?”
“We’ll take a look. I’m going to move your gown,” he warns, so I loosen my grip on the napkin dress, before dropping my arms to my side.
His hands are hot cocoa on a bitter day. They are massaging, squeezing, lifting. For a moment, a beautiful version of me is transported to Brooks’s bedroom. He touches me, caresses me, and I grow hot between my legs, but then I’m reminded of where I am. I’m instantly mortified and worried that sex is on my face. I wish I’d brought my Xanax.
“The good thing is that you already have enough breast tissue of your own to get a great result if you choose a larger implant. Silicone will yield the most natural result, but it’s more expensive.”
Smiling past him, I look at myself in the mirror as he continues to fondle me, and I wonder if I would love my teeth as much if I’d been more frugal. “Money is no object.”
After dressing, setting up a series of surgical dates, and writing a check for a shitload of money, I exit into the lobby. Nosy Barbie is still sitting there, flipping through Elle. She looks at me again, and I flip her off and smile before stepping out into the sunshine.
Six days have passed, and I can’t sleep because my lips feel as though they’ve been hacked off with a box cutter. My boobs are probably way more sore than they’d be if I were breastfeeding a teething demon. And my entire fucking body feels like one giant bruise because I’ve had a rod jammed in and out of it, sucking out my disgusting fat, before horrifically depositing it into my lips. But Dr. Rain says the nose will be the worst.
I had to hire a nurse to bring me home and care for me because I don’t have any siblings, and my parents are dead. That’s why Grandma Gertrude left me money. She hated my mom for marrying a high-school dropout and choosing love when she had the chance to marry into money, so she disowned her. She later went on to win two decent lottery sums totaling just over seven million dollars. Who the hell wins the lottery twice? Bitch grandmas do, but thank you, Grandma. Without you, none of this would be possible.
July 10, 2015
Dr. Rain had insisted that I wait one month between surgeries. I opted to wait longer, because my personal trainer, Mike, had started me on Insanity three weeks after my surgery, and it’s a sixty-day program. Mike has also had me doing an hour of weight training three days per week, but the intensity pales in comparison to Insanity. It’s difficult jumping around like a kangaroo on crack for an hour. I’ve never sweat or grunted so much in my life, not even during sex, since I’ve never even had sex. Being a twenty-seven-year-old virgin is perhaps the most pitiful thing ever. To be almost thirty and not know how it feels to have your vagina invaded by a penis should be criminal. It’s been incredibly tempting at times to just purchase a plastic one and shove it inside me while pretending it belongs to Brooks. But even I’m not desperate enough to lose my virginity to a dildo.
Beads of sweat roll down my back, and my feet are sticky against the pink bathroom tile. I finished my last Insanity workout three days ago, but I’ve taken up running because I want to keep whatever results I’ve gotten. I haven’t even seen my body yet. Mike had suggested I keep the mirrors in my apartment covered and commit to wearing baggy clothes until I finished the program. He insisted most people don’t notice the results they’re getting due to inspecting their bodies every day. I’m excited to see the changes, but I didn’t want to do the big reveal immediately. I needed to take a mental break. Marinate on the hard work I’ve put in. Prepare for the possibility of not getting the kind of results in the infomercials.
The sweatpants drop to the floor after I work them off my hips, and I pull my T-shirt shirt over my head. My lungs fill to capacity as I take a preparatory breath and pray for a hot body. I rip the trash bag from the mirror and almost gasp from shock at my own reflection. I knew I’d been losing weight. My thighs stopped rubbing together a month ago, and I had to buy smaller sweatpants twice. But I wasn’t prepared for this. I don’t recognize that body … her body. She has slender, defined arms. She has abs, even the coveted “V.” Her ass would make any Brazilian girl weep, and her breasts, well … they’re just two perky works of art that bounce freely when she jumps.
And all of it is mine, because she is me. I am her. When I raise an arm, she raises an arm. When I jiggle a boob, she jiggles a boob. I want to give my trainer a million bucks, but I’m not that generous, so I’ll just send him a gift card for GNC. I wince at my face, however, because it’s still screwed. Right now, my Kardashian lips and almost-Chiclets teeth draw even more attention to my giant, crooked butt nose. And my hair. Shit. It’s straight, but it’s not blonde, and that’s what Brooks seems to prefer. It’s bullshit that I have to start dyeing it just because blondes score automatic hot points. Take any average-looking brunette who wouldn’t earn a second glance on the street and dye her hair blonde, and you’ll trick almost every man into thinking she’s something exceptional. Ridiculous.
I plop down on my bed, naked, not daring to cover my hard work with clothes, and silently scream with joy while kicking my legs up and down. I’m seeing Dr. Rain tomorrow for my rhinoplasty. I’m so happy about getting my new nose and my hot body that I squeeze my boobs every which way to get acquainted with them, and then I end up touching myself while thinking about Brooks.
I was up all fucking night. My eyes wouldn’t stay closed after I finished masturbating. I took a Xanax, but my anxiety still won, and my thoughts were an annoying sibling that wouldn’t go away. They zipped and zoomed across my mind like shooting stars until the alarm went off. On the drive to Tennessee, the road waxed and waned as my eyelids fought to stay open. The nurse told me not to drink anything, so I couldn’t even binge on coffee, and I almost ran a cyclist off the road. When I finally made it, I stopped by a good salon and got my hair cut and blondified so that my transformation will be complete once the bandages are removed. Dr. Rain was more than surprised at my weight loss and my new hair, which he said looks great with my skin tone. He’s so dreamy.
Dreamy. I stare up at Dr. Rain’s face. Admire his perfect brows. Wonder if he gets them waxed. He really is so good looking. I can feel myself slipping away, falling down the rabbit hole of forced unconsciousness, and … and … and my body feels heavy, so cold as if I’m lying on ice. My eyes are fluttering rapidly. A masked man whom I vaguely recognize is leaning uncomfortably close to me, saying it’s all over. What’s all over? Who is this guy? Is this real life?
“You did great, Ivy!” he says.
Ivy. Oh. Oh yeah. My memory floods back as I’m sucked out of the abyss. “Do I look pretty?” The words are slurred, heavy on my tongue.
“Congratulations,” he says. “You’re beautiful. And you’re going to love your new nose.”
My mouth tries to curl into a smile, but my lips stick to my teeth, and something hurts in my chin. The chin implant. I give him a thumbs-up instead.
“You won’t be able to look at everything until your appointment next week, but the surgery went very well. I think you’ll be very pleased.”
A single tear falls from my right eye. I hope he’s right.
There are no bitchy Barbies here today. I’m the lone patient. For the last
five nights, I’ve been recovering in a hotel with the help of a hired nurse. To call it boring doesn’t begin to scratch the surface, but the food was good, though unjustifiably expensive. It keeps escaping me that I have millions of dollars, despite the exorbitant amount I’m throwing at cosmetic surgery.
“Hello, Ivy.” Dr. Rain enters the room. He smells of coffee and cologne. Not a bad combination.
I smile at him.
He wheels his stool over to me. “Are you ready to see the new you?”
I don’t answer. I’m too nervous. Terrified. My chance of a future with Brooks depends on this. Dr. Rain brings his hand to my nose. Runs his finger over it. His touch is delicate, and I’m grateful as everything is still sore and bruised.
“I’m going to remove the splint first and then the sutures. Let me know if you feel any discomfort.” His confidence soothes me.
“Okay,” I whisper.
His fingers grasp the splint on my nose, and when he pulls it off, I get the sensation of a brain freeze. I want to cry out or slap him in the face, but I clamp my jaw shut and grit my teeth together instead. Everything I read about removal said it wouldn’t hurt, but fuck it did. He leans back before I nod for him to continue, and then he pulls the snotty, bloody packing from my nose. I can’t help but feel embarrassed by the bloody slime on it, even though I know this is routine for him.
“Beautiful,” he whispers, though it’s more of a pat on the back for his work than a compliment to me. “Now, there’s still some residual swelling and bruising. In a week or two, everything should look normal, but it looks very nice already. Close your eyes.”
The smile I give is involuntary, one of nervousness as the room goes dark with the shutting of my eyelids. His hand grabs mine, pulls me up, and gently pushes me some feet across the room.
“Open them,” he says.
They fly open, but my vision takes a few seconds to adjust before I can process how instrumental Dr. Rain’s skills will be in trying to change the future. To win back the past. There has never been a moment since the accident in which I’ve felt normal—until now. Except I’m not normal. And I’m definitely no longer ugly. Dr. Rain was right. I am beautiful.
No. I am fucking gorgeous. Drop. Dead. Gorgeous.
August 24, 2015
The awkwardly large box obscures my view as I step out of the elevator. I nearly drop it and have to hoist it up with my knee to prevent the damn thing from smashing onto my toes. It was stupid of me not to ask someone for help, but the thought of trying to hire someone every time I go shopping is daunting. And I don’t want anyone decorating my new place. Balancing on one leg, I struggle to fish my key from my pocket.
“Need some help with that?”
The box disappears from my arm and is lifted off my knee before the question is even finished. Sweet relief. “Thank you,” I pant, looking up to find a younger version of John Stamos.
“No problem. I’m Jared. Moving in?”
“I’ve been here a week. Just decorating now. Nightstand.” My hand motions to the picture on the box.
I stick the key in the door and push it open. He doesn’t hesitate before stepping a few feet inside and setting it down on the floor. “Do you need help moving it next to the bed?”
Our eyes trail to the bedroom. “Oh. No, I got it.”
“Well, let me know if you need help with anything else.” His head nods to the door. “I’m just across the hall.”
“Thank you.”
He steps into the hall, then quickly turns around. “Hey, I didn’t get your name…”
“It’s … Emily.” I smile.
“Cool. Nice to meet you, Emily. Welcome to the neighborhood.” He smiles back and disappears from my view.
I shut the door. Grab a kitchen knife and cut open the box. Absentmindedly begin pulling off the Styrofoam. Meeting my new neighbor left me with odd feelings. Though I’ve introduced myself as Emily to the people necessary to obtain a new apartment and switch on utilities, having it arise organically in conversation felt strange. Emily, I whisper. I legally changed it, so there’s no going back now. It was hard for me to choose, but as of two weeks ago, I’m officially an Emily. Emily Brandt. I suppose it’ll take some getting used to, but I like it. Short and sweet, and not too out there. Somewhere in between a Kate and an Eliza. Just where I want to be.
I haven’t seen Eliza yet, but she lives in this very development, which is obviously why I chose it. It’s in Brookhaven—just outside downtown Atlanta and where all the younger, egocentric assholes and bitches live. This particular complex is an all-in-one type of community. Nice apartments rest atop shops and bars, but unfortunately you have to deal with the privileged scum. I moved in a week ago, and I’ve spent all of my time shopping for clothes and furniture. Even took a makeup and styling class from some chick off Craigslist, because I’ve never worn makeup and a curling iron had never touched my hair. Having the proper tools is essential to coming between Brooks and Eliza, so I took what I learned and paired it with some YouTube tutorials until I looked even more fake—even more like her.
And thanks to Facebook and Eliza’s narcissism, I was able to make a bogus profile posing as a model scout, and she accepted the friend request immediately. It was painful to see the hundreds of pictures of her and Brooks on her page—like someone gripped my heart with cactus gloves when I scrolled through months of bullshit to read her engagement post.
I said YES to the most wonderful man EVER! He proposed to me at the top of the Ferris wheel (yes, omg!!!), and my ring is soooo beautiful. THREE CARATS! Can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with my best friend. I LOVE YOU, BABY! #futurejansen #mrsjansen2016
His response:
Happy ten years to my amazing fiancée. Here’s to the rest of our lives. Love you, too. #thankgodshesaidyes #winning
It’s sickening how fond he is of her. If she hadn’t been so clumsy and stupid, I may have stayed average looking. Everything may have fallen back into place when Brooks came back from France. But she stole my chance, and now I’m going to take him back.
I’m pulled back into reality, and I look down, frowning at my hands that have been making a mess, and the hundreds of Styrofoam balls that now speckle the floor.
August 28, 2015
Bringing the mug to my lips, the last drop of lukewarm coffee slides down my throat as the waitress zips by. I sigh, my hand halting in midair before coming to rest on the table again. I can’t do much of anything without coffee. Can hardly remember my old name without the heavenly liquid, much less my new one. If I’m going to craft any sort of decent plan to get Brooks back, I’ll need a refill.
Despite her Facebook telling me she frequents this place, Eliza is still MIA. Perhaps she isn’t eating. Maybe she’ll starve to death. But Lord knows I’ve eaten plenty for the both of us. I’m unwilling to get fat waiting on her, but the smell of freshly cracked eggs and crisping bacon prevent me from simply having a coffee. The aromas must drift far from the building, because all the self-important losers of Brookhaven keep packing the place like sardines. I’ll give it until the end of the week before coming up with another plan. Which would suck, because—
Holy. Shit.
There she is. A crown of blonde shifting nervously from foot to foot at the front door. Two douchebags engage her, because she’s pretty—okay, beautiful … whatever. Raised brows and sly smiles adorn their faces. She rolls her eyes. Raises a hand to flaunt the rock that should be on my finger instead. Stubborn, they keep trying. She steps to the counter, shakes her head at the staff, then shrugs in exasperation. A whoosh of hair as she spins around, heading for the open air and out of my sight.
Every day until the wedding is precious. I can’t let her go. Without thinking it through, I bolt from the table. My feet are quick as I beeline for her, and then fingertips finally connect with her shoulder. “Hey!”
She spins, blue eyes staring at my own. Unable to speak, I stare back. I’m afraid, terrified she will recognize me, even thoug
h she couldn’t. It’s impossible. I don’t even resemble Ivy.
“Yes?”
“Oh my God! It’s been so long! You have to come sit with me.” My hand grips her wrist.
“Wh— ” Her face is one of bewilderment. Her perfume strong, too flowery.
“My table is in the back,” I say. My hand is her gentle guide past the douchebags. Past all the filled tables. Past the conquered obstacle of ugliness that once separated us. I pull her to my booth. Into my life. I sit down, motioning for her to follow. She hesitates before cautiously following suit.
“Do I … know you?” Creases line her forehead.
My eyes widen. “How could you forget? We had a class together junior year. Amanda, right?”
“Uh, no. That’s not my name.” She puts her hands on the table. Prepares to push herself up.
I look over her face. “Oh my God. How embarrassing. I’m so sorry. I could have sworn you were her. Been a long time, I guess.”
“That’s okay,” she answers, but her face says otherwise. She reaches for her purse.
“Stay anyway,” I urge. “It’s a half hour wait. I don’t mind. We can chat.”
Her eyes scan the restaurant. Douchebag Number One delivers a smile to her. She sits again, shoulders relaxing. “Thanks. I come here every morning, but today is insane.”
The waitress stops at the table, finally ready to give me attention. Eliza requests a coffee, and I order another. It’s strange, seeing her in the flesh after so long. Her face is beautiful, though not as beautiful as mine. Dr. D and Dr. Rain do amazing work.
We introduce ourselves. If I fuck up, it’s over. Forever. Chitchat deepens after the coffees arrive. She boasts about growing up in Chastain Park—a nauseatingly wealthy Atlanta neighborhood where my future husband also lives—with a maid and nanny, the whole nine. I lie and counter with a Buckhead penthouse.
The Evolution of Ivy: Poison Page 2