Face, The

by Hunt, Angela

  I know that standard treatment includes plastic surgery, facial reconstruction, and testing for hearing loss. Complications, many of which continue throughout childhood, include difficulty with vision, eating, speaking, and hearing.

  After accessing a Medline article on the syndrome’s psychological effects, I learn that while children with severe facial abnormalities may achieve a level of independent living, many withdraw from society and even become suicidal, because they do not have what most people take for granted: an expressive, functional face.

  I stare into the crowd around the visiting author as the word severe—Dr. Mewton used that word—looms large in my consciousness. I have blithely assumed that Sarah’s physical problems were resolved within a few months of her birth, but what if they weren’t? What if the child faced years of painful surgeries and rehabilitation? What if she’s still suffering?

  If a child were born without a face…would death be a mercy?

  I press my hand to my lips as my gaze roves over the people milling about in the library. A mother walks by, a toddler clinging to each hand, and older patrons automatically stop to smile at the little ones. Why? Because they’re adorable. Big-eyed, shiny-haired, chubby-cheeked cherubs.

  Yet in the carrel across the aisle sits a young woman in a wheelchair. One arm lies across her lap; her right hand is bent and twisted. She’s tapping on the computer keyboard with clumsy fingers and concentrating so intently that apparently she hasn’t noticed the slow string of drool marking her twisted mouth and chin.

  No one stops to admire her. No one pauses to ask her the time or for help with the computer. Even though I suspect she’s been seated at that station for longer than the allotted thirty minutes per patron, no one has approached to tell her to move on. She might as well be invisible.

  My stomach twists as my imagination superimposes my beloved brother’s features on that lonely face. Children can be cruel and peers can be vicious, but years of experience have taught me that indifference inflicts the deepest wound of all. Has my niece, wherever she is, come to the conclusion that her family simply doesn’t care?

  My throat aches with the thought.

  If Sarah is dead, surely someone would tell me. After all, I’ve been honest about my reasons for wanting to contact Glenda Mewton. I don’t give a fig about the woman and her top secret work; all I care about is finding my brother’s daughter.

  I can see a fork in the road ahead: one path leads to the dead end of learning that my niece died long ago, the other to a living woman. But if I find her, and finally meet her, instead of embracing me, she might spit in my face.

  If I had been abandoned and left alone in a world of pain and fear, that might be my reaction.

  Chapter Eleven

  Renee

  When my receptionist hands me the mail on a warm afternoon in May, I immediately recognize the return address on one envelope. Jack Traut, deputy director of the CIA’s Directorate for Science and Technology, is writing—again—to inform me that because I lack the proper security clearance, his agency cannot answer my questions about Sarah Jane Sims or Glenda Mewton.

  After skimming his note, however, I find a handwritten postscript:

  Sarah Jane Sims declines to see you. Furthermore, Ms. Sims is working on a classified project at a secure post. To divulge her location would compromise ongoing operations, expose Americans and foreign nationals to grave risk, and reveal secrets adverse to U.S. interests.

  My first thought is that my niece must be some kind of Mata Hari. My second thought is that Jack Traut has just confirmed that she’s alive, in contact with him, and working for the CIA…at some sort of government facility.

  My vision of Sarah Sims as a blue-jeaned, wisecracking college student vanishes like a burst bubble, but no matter where she is, I refuse to believe that a twenty-one-year-old orphan wouldn’t want to meet her only living relative.

  I drop the letter and buzz the front desk. “Becky, do we know any lawyers who deal with the CIA?”

  She laughs. “None who will admit it.”

  “I need one.”

  “Give me a minute.” I heard the click of her keyboard, then she gives me a name: “Try John Lipps. He’s married to Nicole, and their home number’s in your address book.”

  I close my eyes and try to picture Nicole Lipps’s face. I remember treating her for postpartum depression a year or so ago. “How do you know her husband’s with the agency?”

  “Because when I asked what her husband does, she said he was a lawyer who works for the government. When I asked her which branch, she clammed up. That’s when I knew he had to be with CIA.”

  “Thanks.”

  I jot Lipps’s name on my calendar, then turn to my computer to type out a reply to Traut’s letter. I still haven’t heard anything about my security clearance, but when it comes through, I’ll take a polygraph, endure an interview, and pee in a cup. I’ll jump through whatever hoops they hold up and if all else fails, I’ll hire a lawyer who’s not afraid to confront the CIA on their own legal turf. I start to type:

  Dear Mr. Traut, unless I receive a signed cease and desist statement from Sarah J. Sims, I’m not going away. I’m going to persevere, because that’s what family does—we stick. If you doubt my tenacity, I suggest you broach the subject with my lawyer.

  As I watch the letter emerge from the printer, I can’t help thinking that if I’d been half as persistent in trying to save my marriage, maybe I wouldn’t be spending the coming weekend alone.

  Mother’s Day at church has always been difficult, especially when the pastor interrupts the service to hand out roses to the youngest mother, oldest mother, mother with the most children, mother who’s had the most husbands…

  My cynicism is a defense mechanism, nothing more. For not only do I miss my own mother, but on the second Sunday in May, I mourn the children I have never been granted the opportunity to love.

  This weekend, however, I will be thinking of Sarah—a young woman who, like me, may be enduring the holiday in the dull haze of nothing to celebrate.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sarah

  At precisely four-thirty—the earliest I’ll take a break from work—Judson wheels himself over and asks me to describe the sky. Again.

  I glance at the window. “Blue,” I tell him, “with a whiff of cirrus clouds in the northwest.”

  He snorts. “Sarah, baby, you’ve got to do better than that. Is it a happy sky? A brilliant sky?”

  “You expect me to personify an inanimate slice of atmosphere?”

  “Actually—” he leans forward in his chair “—I was hoping you’d check my Close Connection account again. Let’s see what sort of lovely photos have come in since the last time we logged on.”

  I inhale a deep breath and glance out into the hallway. “This isn’t exactly sanctioned behavior….”

  “You’re too good, Sarah, you’ll never get caught. Just log on and let’s see what sort of bait is nibbling on old Judson’s line.”

  After another quick glance out the door, I activate an operating system of my own design and log on to CloseConnection.com, then enter Judson’s screen name and password. I keep an eye on the clock. Any discernible lack of activity from my station could arouse suspicion, and I don’t want Dr. M breathing down my neck.

  I click on Jud’s account. “You have one new response.”

  His chair moves a fraction closer. “Lay it on me.”

  “From Luscious and Lonely in Dallas. Sent May 20, 7:30p.m. Shall I read it, or would you prefer to listen in private?”

  “Hey, I’m willing to share. Read on, kid.”

  I lower my voice to a confidential whisper in case the walls are listening. “Saw your profile, Secret Agent Man. Tall, dark, and handsome is just my type.”

  I stop. “Tall?”

  “I used to be tall,” Judson says. “Now stop complaining and get on with the good stuff.”

  I sigh and pick up where I left off. “I like skulking on th
e beach, long moonlit rendezvous, and whispering under the covers. If you’d like to spy in my direction, pick up the nearest sat phone and encrypt my number.”

  “¡Maravilloso!”

  I exhale in exasperation. “You could get in so much trouble for an unauthorized contact.”

  “What can they do to a dead man? Now, is there a picture? Is she pretty?”

  I click on the attached photograph. “Brown hair. Symmetrical features. Big eyes. Lashes, but they look fake.”

  “Oh, man.” He rubs his hands together. “Skin like brown sugar?”

  “More like coffee with cream.” I log off the account and double-check the clock.

  “I want to write her back,” Jud says.

  “Not from my station, you don’t. You can risk your own clearance.”

  “But you’re so much stealthier. They won’t even know you’ve been off the server.”

  “You need to give up this obsession, Jud.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’re not doomed to stare at the backside of your eyeballs forever.”

  I can’t argue with that, so I push away from the computer. “Don’t you have work to do?”

  With an adroit move of his left hand he spins to face the door. “Nothing’s more fun than pestering you. But I could be talked into going to the kitchen for a snack.”

  I glance at my computer, where an algorithm is analyzing the responses from one of Mr. Traut’s prisoners. I stand and tap the escape key to enable my password-protected screen saver, then nudge Jud’s wheelchair away from the desk. “Let’s go.”

  We move out of the operations room and through the second floor hallway, my soundless steps keeping pace with the smooth spin of his rubber-coated wheels. We enter the waiting elevator, which, I notice, is momentarily without a guard. The man must be visiting Dr. Mewton’s office or the security station.

  “No guard,” I whisper, leaning against the wall.

  Judson pauses before pressing the button for the first floor. “Did you hear the chopper last night?”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “Aren’t you at all curious about the new arrival?”

  I am, but I’ve lived here long enough to know it’s not wise to ask too many questions. Judson grins and presses the button for the third floor.

  I cross my arms. “If Dr. M or one of the guards happens by, how are we going to explain what we’re doing up there?”

  “You left something in the gym—a towel, maybe.”

  “You know…there are times when I’d like to grab a towel and wring your neck with it.”

  “Take your place in line, kid.” He lifts his chin when the elevator door slides open. “You want to go first?”

  “It was your idea.”

  “Okay, but you’re going to have to be my eyes.”

  “And you’re going to have to listen to the lecture if Dr. M catches us up here. I’ve already heard my share.”

  We move into the hall and travel soundlessly past the exercise room, the X-ray center, the MRI unit, the visiting doctors’ quarters. Quiet lies over the floor like a blanket, which means our new arrival must be sleeping…or drugged.

  When we pause outside the surgery, Judson swivels to face the room across the hall. “Well? See if anybody’s home.”

  I creep across the tiled floor and peer through the window in the door. The hospital bed is empty. “No one in there.”

  “Oh.” The word sounds more like a groan. “Do you think he’s in 335?”

  I tiptoe to the next doorway. This door is always locked and the square windowpane has been reinforced with metal netting. I peer into the padded room and shiver when I realize the space isn’t empty. The latest arrival on our island home sits cross-legged in a corner, shaggy head bowed, shoulders hunched.

  I crouch beneath the window and whisper to Judson. “Male occupant. He’s sitting on the floor, head down, so I can’t see his face.”

  “Tap on the glass. See if he has a greeting for his new neighbors.”

  Against my better judgment, I thump my knuckle against the windowpane. Resident 335 doesn’t move for a long moment, but then the disheveled head rises and a pair of eyes swivels in my direction. The jaw drops, the brows lift, the eyes widen and his hands come up as if to ward off a demon.

  I take a quick sidestep and move away from the window. I tell myself that he might have recoiled from any stranger’s face, but I recognized the horror in his eyes.

  He recoiled from me.

  “So?” Jud asks. “Is he awake?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Smiling, right? Maybe doing a little tap dance?”

  I swallow against the lump that has risen in my throat. “Not funny, Jud. Something’s gone very wrong.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s Hightower. I recognize him from the London op. And he’s not himself. Not himself at all.”

  Judson pushes on the armrests of his chair, and for half a minute I’m afraid he’s going to jimmy the lock and try to speak to our new arrival. If he upsets Hightower, the guards will come running, and then how will we explain ourselves?

  I wrap my palms around the handles on the back of the wheelchair and push it toward the elevator. “When do you think Dr. Mewton will tell us what’s going on?”

  Judson presses his hands together. “Everything in this place is classified as ‘need to know.’ So who says she’ll tell us anything?”

  He has a point, but I’ve worked with Hightower. I’m going to find it difficult to think of him as a classified subject when I know he’s locked in a padded room upstairs.

  Shelba has two trays waiting on the table by the time we go downstairs and enter the dining room.

  “You’re late,” she says, pulling a sheet of plastic wrap from Judson’s plate. “I had these ready at lunch, but you didn’t come down. If that sandwich has gone stale, don’t you be blamin’ me.”

  I glance at the antique clock on the mantel. “Sorry about that. We got caught up in a project.”

  “And now you’ll have no appetite for dinner.” Shelba’s gaze falls on me like the quick touch of a raindrop, then retreats to safer territory. “And you’d better not pick at that food. You’re too thin, Sarah. I don’t want Dr. Glenda fussin’ at me because you’re as thin as a cattail.”

  Judson barks a laugh as he rolls up to the table. “Dr. Mewton wouldn’t dare reprimand you, Shelba. She who wields the spoon wields the power.”

  Shelba’s narrow face splits in a quick smile, then becomes whole again. “All the same, you two had better be back for dinner in two hours. My corn bread casserole is not as good when it’s warmed-over.”

  As Judson applies himself to his sandwich, I sink into one of the antique chairs and pick up a potato chip. “I’m eating.”

  “See that you do.”

  Shelba strides away, her hips swinging in a quick rhythm. I eat slowly while Judson wolfs down his sandwich.

  “Hey,” he says, his fingers spreading in a search for his fork, “did you watch the baseball game last night?”

  “Sorry.”

  “I thought I heard a game playing in your room.”

  “You heard The Natural. Robert Redford and Glenn Close.”

  Judson spears a clump of broccoli. “You should lay off the movies and watch some real sports.”

  “Why?”

  “So you’ll know what it’s like on the outside.”

  “And why would I want to do that?”

  His closed eyelids tremble. “You’re kidding, right?”

  I bite back my answer when the staccato rap of a pair of high heels intrudes on our conversation. The only nonrubber heels in this facility live on Dr. Mewton’s feet.

  Judson lowers his voice. “Can you see her yet?”

  I glance toward the hallway. Did Dr. Mewton notice my unauthorized visit to CloseConnection.com?

  “Judson, if she—”

  “Does she look ticked?”

  I wait until Dr. M rounds the corner. “We�
�re…fine, I think.”

  I take a bite out of my sandwich and concentrate on chewing until Dr. Mewton strides over and taps her nails on the table. Judson’s head rotates toward the sound.

  “Good afternoon, you two. How’s the work coming?”

  I nod and wonder if she’s been listening in on our conversations. Security cameras blink from practically every corner of this facility, and the intercom units function as speakers and receivers…not to mention the possibility that even our private apartments are crawling with bugs.

  “Listen, I don’t mean to hold you up—” her nails click the polished tabletop again as she stares directly at me “—but I’ve received a phone call from Mr. Traut’s office. Despite my insistence that such contact would be inadvisable, a Dr. Renee Carey wants to visit you, Sarah. She’s been told that you can’t receive visitors, but she’s quite stubborn. She’s been pestering the company with calls and correspondence for months, and I don’t think she’s going to go away.”

  Judson’s hand tightens around his fork. “How’d she learn that Sarah is here?”

  “Obviously—” Dr. Mewton’s eyes close “—she has connections. But she’s willing to back off if Sarah responds with a certified letter stating that she doesn’t want visitors.”

  I shift my gaze to the wide windows that overlook the garden. In twenty years, I’ve had only five visitors, and all of them were agency-contracted surgeons.

  “I’m done with doctors,” I hear myself saying. “I’ve already signed a statement saying I want no more operations.”

  “Of course, dear. But Dr. Carey isn’t a surgeon. She’s a psychologist.”

  Judson exhales in a noisy chuff. “Does this woman think our Sarah is nuts? She should visit when we have someone in room 335.”

  I want to kick Jud under the table, but since he has no legs, the gesture would be futile. He’s said nothing to indicate that we know Hightower is in room 335, but around here it’s not wise to notice more than one is authorized to notice.

  Dr. Mewton draws a deep breath. “I would simply ignore this woman’s requests, but Langley is applying pressure.”