by Aubrey Dark
“Nothing will go wrong.”
“Yeah, but what if? Do you want, you know, life support? Or—”
“Of course I want life support!” Gary said. “Heroic measures, the works. Don’t let them pull the plug. Cost isn’t an issue. But nothing will go wrong, trust me.”
“Okay, sure. Let’s move onto something else,” I said. “I think I’ve got it.”
“Good,” Gary said, looking at his watch. The sun was getting ready to sink into the smog of the L.A. valley. “It’s almost time.”
He leaned forward and opened the privacy screen.
“Take us to the surgeon,” he said. “We’re ready.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rien
Everything was set up. The instruments were all laid out in order on the medical table, exactly the way I liked them. Tempered steel scalpels, from the wide No.18 chisel blade with a long handle to the tiny No.12 with its crescent blade like a hook. Each one made for its job, each one perfect in its own way.
I held up the largest straight blade to the light. It was sharpened down so that the edge would cut through skin like it was cutting through cheese.
Today the couple would come to me, hoping for a fresh start. Here: this operating room, so clean and white, overlooking the hills of Hollywood. A place to get plastic surgery while maintaining their privacy. And they would get it, alright.
When I was done cutting, they would be gone. The only thing that would remain of them was the emptiness that was there at the beginning.
People have such hollow lives. I’m always surprised when they beg to keep them.
The blade flashed orange, reflecting the sky outside. I set it back down onto the table carefully and admired the view outside of the huge window that made up one whole side of my operating room. It overlooked the west Los Angeles valley, and I had paid a fortune for it. Or rather, my clients had paid a fortune for it.
Sunsets in L.A. were beautiful, especially from my mansion. Fiery red and gold clouds spilled across the sky, and the moon was already visible in the evening dusk. It was a curved sliver of white, as thin and sharp as my scalpels. The operating room, white tile from floor to ceiling, reflected the burning colors of the sky.
I stripped the latex gloves off of my hands and shot them like rubber bands into the trash. Although I didn’t technically need the operating room to be sterile, I still liked to keep it clean. I suppose it was an old habit that I’d kept around from medical school and my work as an anesthesiologist. Back when I was doing no harm.
The operating table was white and chrome, and I rested one hand on the side of the table. The chrome was cool under my fingertips. Then my hand jerked back, as though afraid to contaminate the clean bed. I used my shirtsleeve to wipe my fingerprints from the chrome. There. Perfect again.
I looked out the window once more. The sky was already darkening. The clouds had turned ash-gray, dirty shadows of their former fire, and the white tile no longer reflected any color at all.
Sara
We pulled up to a private driveway just off of Sunset. I looked over at Gary. He seemed calm.
“Are we not going to the hospital?” I asked, frowning.
“Hospital?” he asked, looking surprised.
“You know, the place where most people get surgery.”
Gary laughed at me. My chest clenched, and I tried to work with it. Susan hated Gary, so I hated Gary. But it was a calm, controlled hatred. Yes.
“You think famous people go to Cedars Sinai to get work done? Hell, no. That would be way too much publicity. We have a private doctor. They say he’s the best. I only hope he keeps his mouth shut.”
“Ah,” I said, sinking into my role as Susan. Of course we would have a private doctor. Of course.
The car pulled around into an alleyway and stopped behind one of the private estates. There was a gate that opened as our sedan pulled into the back driveway, and then closed behind us. I stared up at the back of the huge mansion. A white door was the only entryway I could see, lit up by a spotlight and the rapidly dimming sun. There were no windows on this side of the house.
“That’s it,” Gary said. “Are you ready to be Mrs. Susan Steadhill?”
“Yes, dear,” I said, sneering dismissively.
“Perfect,” Gary said, looking at me with approval.
We got out of the car and headed toward the house. I kept my gaze ahead of me, not on Gary. I imagined Susan Steadhill, bored as hell by having to chaperone her husband into plastic surgery. Gary held the door for me and I brushed by without thanking him. I could tell he was impressed by my acting, at least so far. Well, I didn’t have to do much, did I?
I walked into what looked like a waiting room. Two of the walls were floor-to-ceiling mirrors that made the room seem much bigger than it was. At the front there was a stand with a piece of art on it that looked interesting. But I was Susan Steadhill, and I didn’t know if I cared about art all that much.
Instead, I went straight to one of the leather chairs in the middle of the room and sat down, picking up a magazine. I flipped through the pages of huge houses and manicured lawns. I stopped on an ad for Italian marble countertops. Susan would like this. No, I would like this. Maybe I would redecorate my kitchen, I thought. Which marble would I like best? Not the black, that’s too modern. A nice antique look. Cream marble with blue French tile for the backsplash. Yes, that would be nice.
Gary had just stepped up to the counter when a door opened from the back and a man dressed in surgical scrubs came out. I peeked over and saw a glimpse of what looked like a hospital room behind him, white tile and IV stands set up next to a metal table. I feigned a yawn and went back to my marble.
“Mrs. Steadhill?”
My eyes snapped up from the magazine. Both men were looking at me.
“Yes?”
“Hi. I’m Dr. Damore, the anesthesiologist for your husband today. I need you to sign these forms, and we’ll be ready to go.”
Tossing the magazine aside on the table, I got up and went to the counter. It was then that I noticed the doctor. He seemed average when he came through the door, nondescript even, but now that I saw him up close, something about him drew my attention. His eyes weren’t brown, as I originally thought, but a golden, tawny color that seemed to change with the tilt of his head. It was a strange look, handsome but not conventional. A lion, I thought, the image coming to mind as I looked at him. A predator.
I couldn’t help but be attracted to him. Or rather, Susan was attracted to him. Why wouldn’t she be? He was an attractive man. For a brief, stupid instant, I wished that I could meet him again, outside. Somewhere real, where I could introduce myself. There was something about him that drew me forward even as I held myself back.
“Right here, please. And initial down the back.”
I picked up the clipboard with the form on it and quickly dashed off a signature. Gary looked nervously at me, and I could tell that he was worried I would trip up on the signature. He had no reason to worry, stupid man. I was Susan.
“How long will this take?” I asked, jotting the initials S.S. down on each line of the page. I was thinking about later that day, when I would go get a pedicure and spend a few hours visiting with my other trophy wife friends at the wine bar. Maybe I’d stop by the office and meet with an important shareholder. Ho, hum.
“Not long,” the doctor said. “An hour or two at the most.”
I looked back at him, and in that instant my tongue felt thick in my mouth. He was staring at me as though he could see through the surface, down deep inside of me. I swallowed and shifted my gaze to his hairline, where a sliver of dark brown hair could be seen under his surgical cap..
“Good,” I said, trying to regain my original confidence. I handed him the clipboard, and his fingers touched my hand as it passed between us. It was only for a split second, but I felt it like an electrical shock. The pads of his fingers were smooth and delicate, and they stroked the side of my hand. I jerked my hand
back, then flipped my hair over my shoulder to pretend like I hadn’t felt a thing. Susan hadn’t felt a thing.
When I looked up at him, though, he was still staring at me with that gaze that seemed to look right through my mask.
I can see you, it seemed to say. I can see the real you.
Rien
“Would you like to come and see the operating room, Mrs. Steadhill?” I asked.
The young woman inclined her head slightly. Her eyes landed on her husband’s face, and he shrugged. A small shrug, almost imperceptible.
“Sure,” she said, turning back to me. “Why not?”
“Why not, indeed?” I said, motioning them both toward the door. Mr. Steadhill held the door open for her and she passed through briskly. There was something strange about her, I thought. She was different from most of the wives who had come through my doors.
Everybody who came into my operating room was guilty of something. I knew that better than anyone, except maybe Vale or the people who paid my salary. But the way she moved gave me some pause. She wasn’t as smooth as I imagined a CEO co-conspirator would be. There was something not quite right about her. Maybe it was the way she looked to her husband for the answer to my question, the way a natural submissive would. She didn’t seem like the mastermind type.
Orders were orders, though.
I led them to the operating room table.
“This is the heart monitor, breathing monitor, blood pressure. We’ll check all vital stats throughout the procedure to make sure nothing goes wrong. I’ll be your anesthesiologist and get you all set up before the surgeon comes in.”
I used to be a great anesthesiologist. It had gotten harder and harder as I went. I put people under, and it was getting too tempting to let them stay there if they deserved it. But that was a long time ago.
“Where are the other staff?” Mrs. Steadhill asked. She looked at me with an expression that made me think she knew who I was. There was no way she knew who I was. There was no way she would have walked into my office if she had known.
“No other staff,” I said brightly. “It’s only me and the surgeon. That’s what you’re paying for, isn’t it? Privacy?”
“Yes,” Mr. Steadhill said, walking to the window. “And I hear you’re the best at that.”
“Absolutely, sir,” I said. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman glance at me. Was she suspicious? Or was I paranoid? Maybe she was interested in me. Women often were. Especially married women.
“Nice view you have here,” Mr. Steadhill said.
“One-way glass, of course,” I said. “We can see them, they can’t see us.”
“Perfect. So I’m going to be here on this table the whole time?”
“Yes. I’ll leave you to change into your medical gown,” I said. “Mrs. Steadhill?”
“I’ll be out there waiting for you, dear,” she said to her husband. He leaned towards her and gave her a small kiss on the corner of her lips. I noticed she turned her head slightly away as he kissed her.
“Right this way,” I said, leading her back through the door to the waiting room. I closed the door behind us, then turned to find her staring at the glass globe full of brain tissue.
“Do you like it?” I asked.
“It’s… it’s beautiful,” she said, bending to peer through the glass. Her dress lifted slightly and revealed a glimpse of her creamy thighs. In the mirrored wall, I could see her face intent on the sculpture. The concentration on her face was even more beautiful than the back view of her.
“Beautiful,” I said, the word catching in my throat as I stepped forward. I would have her. She had walked straight into my trap, and now she was mine.
“What is it?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“The sculpture,” she said, still staring through the glass. The first person to ever notice. The first person ever to ask. “What is it?”
Sara
When the anesthesiologist touched my hand, I was deeply immersed in the part of Susan. I realized what Susan would do if an attractive young doctor started to flirt with her.
She would flirt right back.
“It’s a plastic sculpture,” Dr. Damore said. “Abstract art. I never understood it.”
He was standing close to me, and I stood back up, shifting my weight closer to him. Our shoulders were almost touching, and I could feel the heat coming off of his body. As long as I didn’t turn toward him, though, I could pretend as though I wasn’t trying to touch him. Anyway, I could check him out in the mirror.
I wanted to, though. The one touch of his hand had sent thrills through me. And Susan’s husband—my husband—was such a boring guy. Always at work. I deserved a little fun, didn’t I? I had never felt so drawn to a person.
“The best art tells a story. But I think it’s impossible to understand art like this,” I said, tilting my head and studying the sculpture. The small pink-gray pieces of plastic seemed to connect together at points, like an organism growing out of its glass bowl. “It can mean anything. And whatever you think it means, the artist probably had a different meaning in mind.”
“What do you think this artist meant?” the doctor asked. His voice was smooth, like honey. When I turned to face him, we were only a foot apart. My heart leapt in my chest.
“I think that whoever made this was trying to escape,” I said, letting the bullshit flow off of my tongue. “He must have felt trapped.”
“Trapped?”
“In a glass globe. See how it looks like an animal trying to get out?” I touched the top of the glass globe, letting my fingers stroke the glass the way I imagined wanting to stroke the doctor. I heard his breath and let my hand fall to my side.
“Like an animal in the zoo,” he said. “Put there so that people could stare at it, watch it eat already-dead food and climb on concrete made to look like rocks.”
“But it’s an animal made of plastic. It’s not real.”
“Maybe nothing is real,” he said.
I laughed, tilting my head back so that my hair fell and showed my exposed neck.
“Is that a message from your local plastic surgeon’s office?”
“Hey, I only put them under. Whatever happens next is out of my hands.”
I turned, and before the doctor could step back, I placed one hand lightly on his chest. Looking up, I fluttered my eyelashes softly and whispered to him.
“So if this is all fake, when do things turn real?”
Acting like I liked this guy was easy. Easier than any part I’ve ever played. He looked down at me with gold-brown eyes, and I could see his desire. I could feel it, like heat, radiating off of his body. His jawline, slightly accentuated with dark stubble. The slight flash of his teeth through his full lips. He wanted me, I knew it. And why wouldn’t I want him? I could have anyone, after all. I was a CEO, a Hollywood wife, a millionaire. I could have anything I wanted.
“You’re married,” he murmured, looking at me closely. “Aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I said. “We’re such a perfect couple, too.”
“Mrs. Steadhill…”
Before I could respond, the door to the operating room behind him opened. I let my hand fall away casually and turned back to the sculpture as though nothing had happened.
“I’m ready,” Gary said, poking his head through the doorway. My ignorant husband.
“Wonderful,” Dr. Damore said, smiling broadly. “Then let’s get started. Mrs. Steadhill, would you like to sit in for the first part?”
“You mean, while you put him under?”
“Come on, honey,” Gary said. “Come say goodnight, how about it?”
“Anything for you, darling,” I said, my words dripping saccharine sweet. I followed Dr. Damore into the operating room.
My eyes darted to the view of L.A. as we walked in. Again, I had to stop myself from gaping out of the wall that was an entire window overlooking the valley. Probably Susan Steadhill saw views like that all the time, I t
old myself.
Dr. Damore helped Gary onto the operating room table and draped a sheet over his sides and lower body. Then he took out a syringe that was attached to the IV tubing. I turned away, wincing.
“Scared of needles?” Dr. Damore asked.
“Just a bit,” I said. I wasn’t sure if Susan was scared of needles, but I sure was. Gary hadn’t given me much to go on for Susan’s character, so I was making do with my own experiences. And, in my own experience, needles hurt like hell. I stared out at the Los Angeles landscape. The sun was lower in the sky, almost gone, and the lights were beginning to twinkle on all along the valley.
“Start counting down from one hundred,” Dr. Damore said to Gary. I peeked back over my shoulder. The IV was in, and the doctor was depressing the plunger on the syringe.
“One hundred,” Gary said. “Ninety-nine. Ninety-eight.”
“Good. Keep counting.”
Dr. Damore stepped away from the operating table.
“Ninety-seven. Ninety-six.”
“Nice view, isn’t it?” the anesthesiologist said, coming close to me. “Soon your husband will be out. I’ll monitor him closely.” Behind us, I could hear Gary still counting down, his voice getting groggy.
“Ninety-five.”
“Good,” I said, casting my eyes down. The cars below reflected flashes of sunlight. “I trust you with his life.”
Was that too dramatic? I hoped that wasn’t too dramatic. But I felt dramatic.
“Ninety-four. Ninety… ninety-three.” His voice was fading.
“I’ll take good care of him,” Dr. Damore said.
“I have no doubt.”
“I’ll take good care of you, too,” Dr. Damore whispered.
I turned in shock that he would make such a bold statement. The doctor was standing so close to me that I could feel his breath. I looked past him, to where Gary was lying on the table. His eyes were closed, and a line of drool ran from one corner of his mouth as he snored. My heart beat faster. What was I doing, playing with fire? I was supposed to be pretending like our marriage was alright. Suddenly I felt a flash of worry. I had gone too far with acting. I shouldn’t be Susan. I should be a better version of Susan.