by Emily Beyda
Close,” says Max. “You’re doing so well. Better than anyone could have hoped.”
He gently holds my face between his hands and tilts it from one side to the other, looking at me with tenderness. I have been getting better and better at my Rosanna makeup, practicing every day, making adjustments as Max suggests them. He sees her now when he looks at me. Or something like her at least—a shadow, a mirroring, a closeness that is impossible to deny. I have learned to dress like Rosanna. I sit like she sits. I smile like she smiles. My face, in the mornings, when I put on her makeup in the wavery bathroom mirror, is no longer entirely my own. I avoid the window when it gets dark, afraid to catch a glimpse of something not quite myself. I don’t feel like myself anymore. I don’t even feel like a person anymore. I feel like I’ve been hollowed out from the inside, incredibly fragile, a china cup filled dark with tea. I live in the spaces between myself and her, a hungry ghost floating between two worlds. I can feel her emerging from me, a moth discarding its stiff cocoon, climbing damp and pale into the liquid light of the moon. The sensation is painful but not entirely unpleasant, a kind of pushing against, a cracking. I am getting closer every day.
But Max wants more.
“It’s time for surgery,” he says.
With one finger he traces my jaw, the crooked line of my nose. I try not to flinch. He looks right through me as he speaks, through my careful contouring, down to the imperfect slope of my bones, the betrayal of my body inside the body we are working so hard together to create.
“We’ve gone as far as we can with makeup. It’s a risky step, I know, but I trust you. I know now that you’re right. You’re perfect. I can’t believe we’ve made it this far without it, but you’re almost there. Almost. We are so, so close. But we won’t be finished until we make a few changes. Nothing drastic, very tasteful, very natural. Just like Rosanna would do.”
“Surgery?” I say.
“Yes,” says Max.
I feel a chill pass through me, nausea. I can wipe off makeup. I can buy new clothes. But once the surgery is over, I will no longer possess even the tiny fragments of my old self that remain, the narrowness at the corners of my eyes, the way my nose crinkles when I smile like my mother’s nose used to. Already I am forgetting so much. Soon everything that used to belong to me will be gone.
“Okay,” I say. “Just fillers, though, right? Some Botox?”
“No,” says Max, “more than that. Nothing major, but we will have to operate. I found a doctor, someone Rosanna consulted with, of course she never had any work done, but she trusts him. He’ll come here to look at you before we do anything.”
“And then I’ll go to a clinic somewhere?”
A bright flash of hope. If I can’t get out of surgery, at least I’ll get out of the apartment. The sun, the feeling of fresh air on my face—all this will be worth the pain of the operation, the loss of my face.
“No,” says Max, “we’ll do it here. Much more discreet. Rosanna doesn’t want people talking.”
I stiffen, and he grabs my arm, keeping me from getting up and moving farther from him.
“It’s nothing to be afraid of,” he says, “I promise. It will all be worth it in the end. I go to Rosanna’s house every day and tell her about you. How well you’re doing. You’re making her so happy. And me,” he adds when he sees that I am still pulling away. “You’re making me happy, too. Don’t disappoint us now.”
I think of Rosanna, greedy for her old self. I want to give her what she wants. I know I’ve made a promise. But I feel something inside me shudder and catch. I don’t want to be touched that way, by a stranger who will split open my skin, reach inside me and shift me around. I am going too far, further than I had allowed myself to imagine. When it’s done, I will be gone. And I am no longer sure I want to know what will come to take my place. When I speak, I try to keep my voice matter-of-fact, calm. I don’t want to know how he’ll look at me when I say no.
“Of course I’m willing,” I say. “It isn’t that. I would, will, do anything for her, for you. You know that. Rosanna must. But is this really what she wants? She hates needles, doctors. Most doctors. Anything this, well, unnatural. There must be another way.”
A silence. He moves his hand up to my jaw. I remember Rosanna’s interviews, talking about homeopathy, ayahuasca, plant medicine. She wouldn’t approve of what Max is doing. He knows this as well as I do. Has he told her? Does she know?
“Rosanna doesn’t approve of Western medicine,” I say, talking quickly now, trying to get all the words out before he can interrupt. “We should try something else: a healer, some shift in energy? It isn’t my face. My face is perfect, or almost perfect, you said it yourself, and I’m so close to her I can feel it. She’s here in me already. I can make myself perfect, Max, please, I’m working so hard. I don’t need anyone else’s help.”
I can hear my voice tightening up, a note of panic enter the last sentence. I am betraying myself, showing that I am not the easy, languid girl he needs me to be. Nothing like her, still. Even after all this time. My panic betrays my lie.
Max drops his hands, his face going blank. When I had pictured my future self, after all this was over, she had my old face. While I’m here, I can wear Rosanna like a mask, but after, after, when the money sits heavy in that secret account and I am far away from here, it is some improved version of my old self that I picture on that balcony, smiling into that sunset, far away. My old self, but better, with more elegance, more money, interesting stories I wasn’t able to tell. I imagined myself in a garden somewhere, an American heiress, beautiful now, but with my own beauty, a beauty I had learned for myself. If I let them take that from me, what will be left? A blank space. A tight-skinned mess of scars. No small thing to call my own. I reach forward and grab Max’s hand. I try to make him look me in the eyes.
“I’m doing such a good job,” I say, “I’m working so hard. You said it yourself. I’m doing all I can. Please, Max, don’t make me do this.”
He shakes my hand off with a quick little shiver, like flinging away a dead leaf stuck to his skin. He doesn’t look at me. He looks out past me, toward the hills, toward the house I imagine is Rosanna’s house, bloodred in the setting sun, and his face is wiped so clean that he looks like a child. Totally vulnerable. Abandoned. And I am the one who has done this to him. I am the one who has let him down. I try to breathe, to reason my way through. This is just one more small thing. My body is nothing. My body is no longer my own. But the loss grows in my belly until I am sick with it, kicking like an unborn child. Whatever small fragment of my old self remains is screaming to survive. If I do this, there will be no turning back. There will be nothing left for me to revert to, once all this is over. The woman on the balcony will no longer be a person I recognize. She will be a stranger, with a stranger’s face. I have made my promises. It is probably already too late. But still. Still. I can’t.
“Please,” I say, “I can’t. I’m so sorry, Max, but I can’t do it. Please don’t make me. I’ll wear makeup, I’ll do whatever you want, just don’t cut me open. Not yet. Not until all this is over. No one will be able to tell the difference, I promise. I promise, Max. Tell her, convince her for me.”
Max stands slowly. He wipes his hands on his suit jacket, as if he has been touching something rotten. His eyes, bouncing from wall to wall, are glazed, and his voice, when he finally speaks, is free of emotion. Carefully ironed out. Flat.
“Okay,” he says, “I’m going to consider this a lapse. You’re not thinking clearly. You’re not in a rational enough mood to discuss this with me. I’ll come back when you’re ready. When I’m ready. And if you really want to give up now, well—”
At this he stops, makes a futile little sweeping motion in the air. Well, what? Well, nothing. If I give up now, we have failed her. And I have failed them both. I close my eyes for a moment, breathe. I will get a new face. A
better face. A face that Max or anyone could love. Maybe I can say yes. Dream of a new life. A new and better self. Maybe, after, we can re-create my old smile, the invisible markers of my past. I open my eyes to ask. But the door has already slipped shut behind him.
* * *
—
In the morning when I wake up, I do my exercises, sure that Max will be back at any moment, maybe with Rosanna, ready to talk. I want to show them both that I’m serious. That I’m working hard. I’m ready. I run wind sprints back and forth across the worn rug. I do my makeup, wiping it off and starting over again and again until it’s flawless. I am too nervous to read. I sit on the couch waiting for Max and Rosanna for at least a full hour, trying my best not to move. I want them to find me perfect. I do my planks, I tan, I make espresso in a metal pot on the small stove. In the afternoon, I run more wind sprints. I go to the kitchen and take inventory. I have half a head of celery, three slightly floppy carrots, two small jars of chia seeds and flax, and a packet of dried seaweed.
I remember an article where Rosanna discussed how to cook with chia seeds. She stands beside me in the kitchen, her voice an encouraging chirp. “It feels so indulgent, but it’s great for you! They’re hydrating, super high in vitamins, fiber, and all kinds of good stuff. Definitely one of my go-to healthy snacks!”
I measure out a tablespoon of seeds and leave them to soak until they swell with liquid, a sticky mass of black-and-gray goop. It is one of the most unpleasant things I have ever forced down my throat, viscous, slimy, tasteless. I drink it with a series of short and painful gulps, and smile like she smiles in the pictures. I see her there beside me, smiling back.
“So simple, and so good!” I say to the empty room.
The sky goes dark and I give up on Rosanna. Still, I wait for Max. Still, he doesn’t come.
* * *
—
I run out of food on the third day and decide to try the door. Maybe Max isn’t planning on coming back at all. Maybe he’s abandoning me here, like an unruly animal left on the side of the highway. Before I leave, I go through Rosanna’s handbags. There are wallets in some of them, gift certificates, memberships, passes, unactivated platinum cards. Crumpled handfuls of cash in the pockets of the coats, softened by her sweat. I put all the money I can find in a small leather clutch and dress myself in Rosanna’s most ordinary-looking clothes. Maybe I can find her house somehow. Go to her directly, plead my case.
I stand behind the door for a long time, getting my nerve up. I know I am already close to the edge. If Max discovers I have left without his permission, even for a minute, even just to get food, fully intending to come back, this will all be over for me. My contract will be terminated. I will be sent somewhere far away. I will never meet Rosanna. I will never see Max again. I rest my hand on the wood, feeling it warm and grow slick beneath my palm, weighing the two paths in my head. I think of Rosanna, how disappointed she will be, having to start over, find someone new. How angry she will be at Max for failing her. How angry she will be at me for letting her down. I think of how much progress I have already made, of my future self, my beautiful self; how I will get another face after this that belongs to me alone, not Rosanna’s face, but a new face, a dream face, even more beautiful, more perfect than Rosanna could ever be, because it will be constructed from the purity of thought. It’s worth it, I tell myself, it has to be. This is a test. Max is testing me. And if I open the door, which I am sure is unlocked this time, I will fail. If I want to stay, I will have to prove my consistency to him. I will have to wait. I take one breath, another. I picture Rosanna’s smiling face, her standing in front of me, my mirror. I let my hand fall from the door.
I take the money out of the clutch and redistribute it throughout the apartment, hidden underneath the small refrigerator, stuffed into the pillowcases, rolled up and tucked deep into a jar of kosher salt. Just in case. I know what Max is capable of now, the depths of his neglect. After that, there is only black coffee and water until the sun sets. I should stay still, conserve my energy, but it seems important that I still do my exercises, although every movement makes my body feel like it’s about to break into a million tiny pieces. I get through a set. I move slowly. My makeup is slightly less than perfect. I have to force myself to wipe it off and start again. I am so tired. But I am still here. When Rosanna comes back, I want her to see my devotion. I picture the way her face will light up, seeing me, seeing her, that horrible blank sadness gone. At night, I crumble half of a chicken bouillon cube I discovered tucked away in the back of the pantry into a cup of hot water, a trick from my foster care days to keep the hunger pangs at bay. It works. I sleep.
* * *
—
It is four days until I see Max again. Four times the parrots fly noisily out of the courtyard in the morning. Four times they return at night. It is sort of a relief that I can still do this, that there is still a way for me to hold on to and calculate time, keep it from slipping past me in an undifferentiated stream. So I count. I wait. I wait.
On the fourth day, my patience is rewarded. Max comes alone, carrying a gold takeout bag. It is noon, and I am sitting on the couch in my close to perfect makeup, hands folded in my lap. I have not consumed a single bite of solid food for almost two days now. I am shaking, I think from the coffee. When I hear the door open, I don’t turn my head. I am determined not to move, not even to breathe too loudly. Everything is normal, I think. Everything is fine. Max goes into the kitchen and unpacks the bag, placing tiny dishes on a wooden tray. There is wild mushroom soup, lobster ceviche, crispy Brussels sprouts and black cod, spicy tuna hand rolls. A tiny red box with a little round cake and a scoop of melting ice cream tucked inside like a ring. All Rosanna’s favorites. She must have picked them out just for me. A way of saying sorry for everything she’s put me through. From the corner of my eye, I watch him, my mouth watering. I want everything so badly. He brings the tray in, sets it on the table. I do not move until he tells me to.
“Here,” he says, an embarrassed tenderness in his voice. “Eat. I thought you might want something special. I got this just for you. Your favorite. All your favorite things.”
We, I think. I force myself to eat slowly, as if he never left, as if I’m not hungry at all. This is just another meal. Everything is fine. I am in control, and I want him to see that. I even leave a few scraps behind, although I want so badly to reach in my fingers and wipe the bowls clean, lick out every last sticky dab of sauce. It is almost too much. I feel sick, afraid I will vomit the overrich meal back up, betray the frailty of my body. When I finish, he clears away the plates and, as he passes, lightly strokes the back of my head.
“I’m sorry,” I say, not looking at him.
I look out toward the window where the sun is shining bright, almost too bright to look at directly, thinking of the distance to the street. I can hear cars passing, life going on outside, without me. Without Rosanna. And I know what I have to do.
“Max, I’m so sorry,” I say.
“Good,” he says.
“I’ll do it,” I say.
A silence. He says nothing, just keeps stroking my hair, his eyes wandering vague around the dirty corners of the room. It’s too late, I think. He’s here to tell me the bad news. It’s over. Rosanna has lost her faith in me.
“Please,” I say, “I know I was wrong. I know it’s what she wants now. I’ll do anything she wants me to do. I trust you, Max. I’ll do anything you say.”
Max puts his arms around my shoulders and squeezes me lightly, paternally, giving my back a little pat. In his arms, I can feel how fragile my body is, even after just a few days of deprivation. My bones seem to float loose. I picture them floating in the bloody quiet inside. I picture the doctor, slipping his fingers beneath my skin, as easy as dipping a bucket into the cold dark water of a well, rearranging me until I am perfect. Building my body like carving a statue, pulling beauty from a flawed
stone.
“I’m sorry, too,” Max says.
I want so badly to believe him.
* * *
—
A doctor comes to the house in street clothes. He is the first person I have seen in months—two months, maybe, close to three. My orders are clear. I will not speak to him. Even if asked a question, I will not say a word. But he won’t ask me any questions; he knows the rules, too. We have paid him a tremendous amount of money. He will forget what he has seen. Max has told him there are certain threats against Rosanna’s life, that she needs me for protection. I wonder what is more true. That as the doctor thinks, she needs protection from some outside threat, that my body is a blind, a duck decoy? Or what Max has told me, that I am her mirror, her charm, absorbing all harm. That she needs protecting from herself. What does she picture when she pictures me? What needs of hers do I fulfill? Soon, I think, I will know. When I have her face, I will know what she knows. I will be completely trusted then. They will tell me what I need to do.
I cannot speak, but I can look, and even looking is overwhelming. The doctor’s presence in my small room feels like an unbearable violation. He is older than Max, with a reassuringly placid air, his forehead as smooth and glossy as a frozen lake. Everything about him is icy white and still—his hair, his skin, his suit. He nods politely when he sees me, letting his eyes slide slick over my body with professional detachment.
“Please,” he says, “remove your clothes.”
I look to Max, who nods, his face tight. This makes him feel uncomfortable, too. Somehow I find this reassuring. I keep my eyes on him, pretending the doctor isn’t here, concentrating on our common goal. I take off my clothes. This time, Max doesn’t look away. Neither does the doctor. I look at them, but they don’t look back. Even Max doesn’t meet my eyes. To him, right now, I am an imperfect object, nothing more. They walk around me in tight circles, discussing.