Face, The

by Hunt, Angela

  The waitress comes with two water glasses, and this time she glances at me as she sets them on the table. I wait until she leaves, then I begin to gather up the yards of cotton that envelop me. “What are ‘boy things’?”

  “Baseball, football, camping, fishing—all the things boys like to do with their fathers.”

  “And ‘girl things’?”

  She smiles. “These days girls do pretty much whatever boys do. But they also like babies…and clothes.”

  I pull several yards of blue fabric onto my lap, then cross my arms and pull the burka off in one swift move. After bundling the fabric and squeezing it between my side and the wall, I smooth my hair.

  “That’s better.” Renee smiles again. “I’d rather talk to you than to a mesh square.”

  I lift the glass and sip my water. My nerves feel electric, as if unfamiliar impulses are traveling up and down my limbs. Maybe this is how Judson and my father felt when they were sent on their first missions. Naked. Exposed.

  “You know, you can tell a lot about a person by studying their face,” Renee says, sliding a straw into her glass. “Our expressions elicit reactions from others, and often what we say with our face is more important than what we say in words.”

  I sip my water again, not sure why she’s talking about faces while she’s looking at mine. Isn’t it obvious that the only reaction my face elicits is disgust?

  “You like movies, Sarah,” she continues. “Haven’t you noticed that the best movie stars speak volumes with their expressions?”

  “I always thought that was because they’re trained actors.”

  “They are, but on-screen they’re only doing what other people do naturally every day. With additional surgery and some training, you could learn how to use your face, too.”

  I stir my water with my straw and wonder what she’s getting at.

  “Once,” she says, smiling at her glass, “I had a patient with Mobius Syndrome. She couldn’t smile at all until she had surgery, and she couldn’t afford the surgery until she reached adulthood. Once she was able to smile, she had to learn all the ways she could use a smile to communicate with others.”

  I stop stirring my water. “So if I had surgery, would I have to learn these things, too?”

  “Some things. But you could do it, Sarah, because you’re bright and motivated. You can learn anything you want to learn.”

  Her words give me confidence, but I’m still not sure what she’s proposing. Our conversation is interrupted when the waitress approaches with a tray in her arms.

  “Dos ensaladas verdes,” she says, placing two small salads on the table. “¿Quiere algo mas?” She has spoken to Renee, but her gaze cuts to me as she asks her question. And her face, which had been set in straight, regular lines, twists as her eyes widen and a frightened squeak cuts through the clink of silverware and the chatter of customers.

  The guests at the nearest table turn in our direction. The parents frown and the toddler screams. The mother, after casting a disapproving look in my direction, tries to comfort the child, but the little girl is wailing in earnest.

  I have terrified her.

  I turn my face to the wall and bring up a hand to shield my face. “Perhaps we should go.”

  “Sarah, you have every right to be here.”

  “I don’t want to cause a problem.”

  “This isn’t your fault. You’re not the problem, they are. They shouldn’t be so judgmental.”

  “You can’t tell me—” my voice quavers “—that the child is being judgmental.”

  Renee closes her eyes and pulls her purse onto her lap. “If you want to go, we will.”

  “I want to go.”

  Before she can protest again, I dive back into the burka and slink out of the booth, a silent blue shadow intent on retreat. I make it as far as the restaurant entrance, then I trip on the hem of my concealing tent and fall headlong into the bustling crowd.

  And as my aunt and the host help me to my feet, I realize that Dr. Mewton is right. I am a monster and the world is not a safe place for monsters.

  Like Frankenstein and Quasimodo, I’ll be safer if I’m hidden away.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Renee

  On the bumpy ride back to the convent—in a different boat, and with a different driver—I breathe in the scent of sea salt and search for comforting words to offer Sarah. I had wanted this excursion to be a joyful and intoxicating taste of life, and I had hoped to broach the subject of further surgeries to encourage her to make plans for a life outside the CIA. But our experience in the restaurant ruined my strategy, and the little girl’s regrettable reaction damaged Sarah’s confidence.

  Yet how can I prevent such things? Short of forewarning people of Sarah’s condition—an act that would result in a life as phony as the one at Convent of the Lost Lambs—I can do nothing.

  We live in a society where nonconformity upsets people and misfortune is frequently mocked. Beauty wins praise and approval, ugliness invites ostracism and derision. I would love to help Sarah improve her life, but I can’t change the world.

  Five years ago, on a chilly Friday in April, I couldn’t even change one man’s mind.

  I should have known something was wrong in the weeks before that night. Charlie had begun to grow distant, but I attributed his silence to problems at work. I understood career pressure, and as the head of an architectural firm, he had several big projects under development.

  But even when I came home to find Charlie’s suitcases standing in the foyer, I didn’t consider the obvious explanation. I saw him sitting in his overcoat in the dining room with his keys on the table. “You have a trip?” I asked, dropping my purse to the carpet. “Did I forget to put it on the calendar?”

  “Renee.” His faint smile held a touch of sadness. “I’m leaving.”

  “Do you need a ride to the airport?”

  As I pulled my scarf from my collar, he reached up to catch my hand. “I’m not going on a trip. I’m leaving you.”

  The emphasis on that last word was like a dagger to the heart. Quick, sharp, sudden. No drawn-out fights or probationary period for us, no undignified arguments or public brawls. Our marriage would die not gradually, but in a single night.

  Unless…

  “Charlie—” I clung to the hand he had offered “—I’m sorry. We seem to have neglected each other lately, but we can turn that around. We can take a few days off, make time for each other, do the things we used to enjoy doing together—”

  His eyes were damp and filled with pain as he pulled his hand from my grasp. “Too late for all that, Dr. Carey. Time and again over the last five years I’ve asked you to do one thing or another, but you were always occupied with your work. You’ve taught me to live without you, and I’ve learned my lessons well.”

  My stomach churned in a moment of pure panic—for the first time in months, an aspect of my well-ordered life was slipping out of my control. I hadn’t expected this, hadn’t planned for it. Charlie and a baby and family time were part of my future, items at the top of the list for next year or the year after.

  He stood and slipped his hands into his gloves. “I’ll have my lawyer send over the papers next week—everything’s been arranged. I think you’ll find I’ve been more than fair.”

  I sank onto a dining room chair as Charlie crossed into the foyer, picked up his suitcases, and opened the front door, sending a blast of frigid air into the house.

  I didn’t cry, not then. My sense of loss went beyond tears, and my wounds had not yet begun to bleed. One thing, however, made sense to my mind: we do teach by example, and Charlie was right…by my neglect, I had taught him to live without me.

  What has years of loneliness and isolation taught Sarah?

  My niece and I do not speak as the boat takes its loud journey back to the island. By the time we pull into the cavern, my heart is so filled with regrets that I can’t remain silent.

  “During my residency,” I say a
fter the driver cuts the engine, “I once met an adult patient with cherubism—a condition that causes the lower jaw and cheeks to grow to outsize proportions. The patient frequently found herself being stared at—and, yes, some people were shockingly rude to her. But she came to terms with her condition and came to accept it. When I met her, she told me that she considered her uniqueness a gift.”

  “Is that—” the voice coming from beneath the burka is icy “—because all of mankind’s problems can be solved with psychology?”

  I meet her cool gaze. “No. My patient’s attitude was the product of unusual strength and courage. You have those same qualities, Sarah.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “Because I knew your father. I see him in you. And I know he would not want you to let real opportunities for change slip through your fingers.”

  Sarah falls silent, not speaking even when the driver offers his hand and helps her onto the dock. She hesitates when one of the guards calls out a greeting, then she strides toward the elevator, leaving me to clamber out of the boat alone.

  I can’t blame her for being upset. As I thank the driver and make my way across the dock, I realize that I’m failing in all I came her to do. Since learning about Sarah, all I’ve wanted is to help her find a new life, but all I’ve done is demonstrate how painful life can be. Why should she choose to endure suffering when she can remain content in confinement?

  I’m afraid she will slip away and go to bed before I can speak to her again, but she waits for me in the elevator. I nod a greeting to the guard. “You don’t have to escort us upstairs. I know which buttons to push.”

  “Sorry, ma’am, but it’s protocol.”

  “Thank you, but we’ve had a rough night. Please, let us have this elevator to ourselves.”

  The young man bites his lip and glances up at the security camera, then steps out of the car. When the sliding door has closed, Sarah says, “He’s going to be in so much trouble.”

  “An elevator guard—I’ve never heard of anything so silly.” I pull the confining burka from Sarah’s head. “Look,” I tell her, grasping at my last hope, “I don’t blame you for not wanting to enter a world that can be cruel to anyone who doesn’t measure up to whatever’s considered normal. But they are doing amazing things in reconstructive surgery today. I’m almost positive you would be a great candidate for a face transplant.”

  Her expression doesn’t change, but her eyes glitter with something that might be interest…or cynicism. “A face transplant…like that Nicolas Cage movie, Face/Off? Complete science fiction.”

  “The movie, yes, but French surgeons performed a successful partial transplant in 2005. The technology is available. If you’re willing, Dr. Mewton and I could investigate the possibilities. We could make some calls and get your name on a donor list.”

  She hugs the crumpled burka to her chest. “It can’t happen.”

  “Why couldn’t it? I know you’ve had your fill of surgery, but the pain would be relatively brief. The result would improve the rest of your life.”

  She leans against the wall and closes her eyes. The car comes to a halt at the first floor and the door opens.

  I step forward, convinced that I’ve lost her, but her whispered response halts me on the threshold. “I’d like to look different, but leaving here wouldn’t be easy. I felt…lost out there.”

  “I could help. I could prepare you for the changes you’ll encounter once you leave this place.”

  She exhales softly and blinks, inadvertently drawing my attention to a trace of wetness on her cheek. “I’ll think about it. Good night.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Sarah

  I don’t know why I told my aunt I’d think about a face transplant. Maybe I did it to get her off my back; maybe I want her to like me. I know she came here because she loved my father, but that doesn’t mean she can love someone as ugly and freakish as I am.

  I step off the elevator on the second floor and begin the walk down the hallway. The lights are off in the operations and conference rooms, but two guards are seated in the security center, their eyes fixed on the surveillance monitors. They’ve probably already reported Clint for stepping out of the elevator when Aunt Renee asked him to.

  I stop outside the security station and study the backs of the guards’ heads. Neither of them, I decide, is Mitch. Since he wasn’t on the dock, he must be back in the city, maybe sleeping in his apartment.

  I close my eyes as an unexpected wave of yearning rises from some place deep inside me. I know I shouldn’t even entertain the idea, but what if—what if I could get in the boat and go to Mitch’s apartment? What would it be like to eat dinner across the table from him, or lounge on a sofa with him while we watch a movie? Thousands of women do these things with their boyfriends every day, so why not me? On some days I’d happily surrender my right arm if I could have twenty-four hours of normal life with a man like Mitch.

  I shift my focus from the guards to the glass in the door and smirk at my reflection, though I am a long way from genuine humor. I shake my foolish dreams from my head and continue down the hall, tiptoeing past Judson’s door until I reach my own. I slide my key card through the scanner and let myself in.

  My home is only a small room cluttered with books, computers, and posters, but it is the one space where I feel totally comfortable.

  I toss the burka onto my chair and step into the bathroom, where I run water in the sink and pump antiseptic cleanser into my palm. I lift my gaze to the mirror and begin to soap my face, watching my reflection as Aunt Renee watched hers.

  In that instant, my surroundings fade away and I see myself as the little girl in La Coruña saw me.

  I am a freak. A lashless, lipless mask with ribbed and quilted skin. One of my eyes hangs lower than the other, and my nose is far too short for my face. Tracks from various surgeries stretch across my cheeks, and my lower jaw juts too far forward for balance or beauty.

  I can’t even blame nature for my misshapen appearance. If I’d been left alone after birth, nature would have taken care of her own mistake, but Dr. Mewton and the other CIA doctors stepped in to save my life. Their surgeries gave me teeth, a jaw, hearing, and sight, but my face bears the marks of their tinkering and my nerves will never forget the pain.

  As a child, I was helpless to explain how much I was suffering. If I submit to a surgeon’s knife again, am I not asking for more of the same agony?

  I bend over the sink and splash away suds as I wish I could splash away my confusion.

  When I wake the next morning, I suspect that my mind pondered the possibility of additional surgery even while I slept. My brain feels as if it’s made of gelatin, my limbs are heavy with rigor. The eastern sky is delivering a bright new day, but I feel as though I’ve been grappling with an enemy all night long.

  But who, exactly, is my enemy?

  I’m not quite sure what to make of my aunt. She’s bright, and she seems to care about me, but does she really know what she’s talking about? Dr. M doesn’t seem to trust her, and I’ve always relied on Dr. Mewton. Judson, on the other hand, likes my aunt a lot, and he seems to have good instincts about people.

  After showering and slipping into clean scrubs, I jog down the stairs and step out into the graveyard. I need a fresh perspective, a neutral place to sort out my thoughts.

  The cool air of early morning floats around my arms, which are bare to my elbows. The rising sun resembles a blood-red balloon and its rays have tinted the waters crimson. The day will be warm, for there are few clouds in the sky and not much of a breeze. If only my mind were so uncluttered.

  I can’t stop thinking about the possibilities. I could have a new face and a new beginning. Do I deserve it? No. Do I have the courage to go through with it? Maybe not. Life would be easier if I stayed here with my movies and my computers, but I would always be haunted by questions of what might have been…

  I wander among the dew-drenched gravestones until I reach the
stone bench, then I sit and stare at the graveyard, not caring that the seat of my pants will be damp when I go to breakfast.

  Did these nuns freely accept their seclusion when they lived at the Convent of the Lost Lambs? Or did they ever need to confess a yearning for another life, even another day, lived beyond these walls?

  I stand and plant my feet on the base of the wall, then peer over the edge. The waves in the bay are so high they look like rolling hills. Hills that might be planted with flowers and trees and grass in a little village somewhere else…anywhere else.

  Odd, that I never felt the isolation of this place until my aunt arrived. I have watched the world through films; I have tasted it through books. As moving as those experiences have been, they were nowhere as exhilarating as walking through the city center of La Coruña. Despite the confusion and discomfort of the burka, I felt as though I had left my seat and walked straight into a movie.

  Could I cope with that level of reality every day? Am I capable of living in a place where I’d be free to do what I wanted? Will I ever know what it means to love?

  My questions tremble in the breeze, unasked and unanswered.

  In The Shawshank Redemption, Red tells Andy about men who have become institutionalized. They get so accustomed to the pattern of prison life that they can’t function on the outside.

  What if I am one of those people?

  My stomach drops when I hear the sound of a door opening. I exhale in relief when I recognize the hum of Judson’s wheelchair.

  The hum stops. “You out here, kid?”

  “I am,” I call, sinking back to my bench. “Your instincts are good.”

  His face turns toward me, like a flower seeking the sun. “When you weren’t in your room, I figured I’d find you here. It is a good spot for thinking.”

  Leave it to Jud to know I’d be deep in thought. Even though he’s never seen me, sometimes I think he knows me better than I know myself. I know he understands me better than Dr. Mewton does.