“I am.”
“Welcome.” She was shown into an exam room, and the woman smiled and left.
God. Juliet was sweating now. Why was she here? She’d never thought of herself as beautiful, but she liked her face. She looked a lot like her father, she knew, and had what Oliver’s mother called a sporty face. Strong bone structure, symmetrical enough, not particularly girly-pretty, in that she didn’t have full lips or doe-like eyes.
That was fine. She was attractive. With some makeup, she could look quite nice. She had good skin, in that it was clear and even-toned, more or less. She’d always thought she was aging well. Sure, she had crow’s-feet, which she rather liked. And yes, her throat was starting to get crepey. And her hands looked like a crone’s if she didn’t drink enough water. And there was a wrinkle on her cheek when she smiled that hadn’t been there last year.
But look at Helen Mirren. Meryl Streep. Don’t even get started on Angela Bassett. They were older than she was and had never been more beautiful.
And yet, here Juliet was, at a posh New York plastic surgeon’s office because she was terrified. She was forty-three, and Arwen was thirty-one, and maybe—gah—looking a little younger would remind the partners and perhaps the world that she was still a young(ish) woman, but really, why would you want a young architect? Wouldn’t you want someone with experience and maturity? They made buildings! Experience was a good thing if you didn’t want things crashing down on your head!
And yet she’d been passed over for the Forty Under Forty. Vanity Fair was doing a profile on Arwen. Vanity fucking Fair. “Women Who Are Changing the World.” After being lead designer on three entire projects.
Three.
So yeah. That’s why Juliet was here. It went against everything she believed in, and here she was. Not a proud moment, but she wasn’t racing for the door, either.
The door opened. “Hello! I’m Dr. Brian. How are you? Juliet . . . Smith! What a pretty name.”
He was about sixty and wore a white doctor’s coat over jeans and a button-down shirt. And he was no supermodel himself. Should she trust a plastic surgeon with a nose that size? Why hadn’t he gotten anything tweaked? Look at those wrinkles! And he was balding. “Hi,” she said.
“What are you thinking of today, Juliet?”
Juliet took a deep breath, noticing that her hands were shaking. “I’d like to look . . . a little younger. Not different, just . . . rejuvenated.” She closed her eyes at the overused word.
“Face? Body? Labia and vagina?”
“Jesus, no.” She paused. “What’s that? The vagina thing?”
He smiled pleasantly. “We can plump up your labia, maybe trim them, since they can get stretched out—”
Her knees locked together. “Trim my labia? Are you kidding?”
“No, not at all. We can get a very nice effect. We can also tighten your vagina. It says on your form you’ve had two children?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Which can stretch you out, obviously. A few well-placed stitches, and—”
“Okay, no. I’m not comfortable talking about this.” Did men do this? Was there any male at DJK who was being told his sac should be a little tighter and higher?
“I just want something quick and easy and very subtle,” Juliet said. “I don’t want to look frozen. I don’t want to look weird or different or carved up . . . I just want to look like me, five or ten years ago. No scalpels.” Her hands were tingling. A panic attack was lurking.
“Got it. Let’s have a look.” Another pleasant smile. “Listen, Juliet, it’s normal to be nervous. I promise not to slice and dice when you’re not looking.” He laughed, and she felt a little better. He tilted her head, pushed her hair back, lifted her eyebrow, tapped on the underside of her chin. “What brings you in at this point in your life? Big birthday coming up, or anything like that?”
What the hell. “There’s a woman at work who’s younger than I am by about ten years. She’s getting a lot of plum assignments and kind of leaping up the food chain, and I can’t help but think it’s because she’s so attractive. At least in part. The new kid on the block, you know?”
“What kind of work do you do?”
“I’m an . . . uh . . . uh, a magazine writer?” I’m a world-class architect. You’ve probably seen my work. You may have been in one of my buildings.
“Neat! What magazine?”
“It’s . . . an online thing.”
“Okay,” he said. “Here’s what I’d recommend. You’re already a beautiful woman, and we can make you even more beautiful. You have some puffiness above your eyelids, which is very normal for a woman your age, and your jawline is starting to soften, which gives the appearance of jowls and definitely makes you look older. We’d cut some tiny holes, insert a laser—”
“A laser?”
“That’s right! The heat will cause contracting and stimulate collagen growth. Or, for something more dramatic, a neck lift would give you great results, along with a lower face lift.”
“No. No cutting.”
“Fine, fine. You could go for an eye lift, since your lids are looking a tiny bit heavy, but you said something quick. Some lip plumping would definitely add to a more youthful appearance. Subtle. You, but five years ago.” He smiled, trying to reassure her, which was nice of him, since she felt like puking on his shoes. “We can do some Botox injections to lift the brow. Some filler between your eyes to get rid of that.” He touched between her eyebrows where, yes, she did have a crease. “There are also some more superficial things I’d recommend. Lash extensions, teeth whitening. A sassy haircut, even. You know we have an aesthetician wing here.”
Juliet touched her hair. It was all one length, cut (rather well, she thought) straight across with a razor every two months or so. Not one bit of body to it, so it was reliably straight day in and day out. She could wear it in a ponytail or a bun, or just down, which was what she did most days.
Oliver loved her hair. Plus, Arwen had a sassy haircut, and Kathy had just gotten one as well, and Juliet didn’t want to look like a follower.
“Um . . . okay, but not a haircut.”
“Trust me?”
“I just met you.”
He smiled. “Well, I’m a board-certified plastic surgeon. Dartmouth, Johns Hopkins, NYU residency. I’ve been practicing for twenty-two years.”
Just not on yourself, apparently. She clenched her fists. “Okay. Let’s do this. I’ll be able to go home looking normal, right?”
“Of course.”
“Not a lot of Botox. I don’t want to look like those freaky Real Housewives.”
“Two of them are my patients,” he said. “But I hear you. Just a sprinkling. You’ll look like you came back from a wonderfully restful vacation.”
* * *
— —
A wonderfully restful vacation where she fell asleep in the sun for eight hours, apparently.
“Am I bweeding?” she said, looking closer.
Her lips were swollen, which would subside, Dr. Brian said. He’d better not be lying. And for God’s sake, she could hardly see through the forest on her upper lids.
“There are a few little dots, yes, but that’s normal.” He blotted her forehead, and the gauze showed blood.
“I—I can’t go home wike this.” Her glowing white teeth flashed against her red, red skin and swollen lips.
“It will just take a day or two.”
“You said an hour!” She was blinking, the lash extensions so long they hit her cheeks (and possibly her eyebrows, but she couldn’t feel those). She looked like Bambi trying to flirt. An evil, demonic Bambi. She tried to draw her eyebrows together, but they were no longer functioning eyebrows. She could lift them maybe a millimeter.
The redness. Jesus. Her face was the color of boiled lobster.
And those eyelashes.
That was a mistake. “I thought it would wook more natural.”
Dr. Brian smiled. “You look beautiful. The redness and swelling will go down, and the lashes will come off in a couple of weeks, so you may want to schedule a fill appointment now.”
She cringed. “It wooks wike I have a small animal sitting on my eyewids.”
A jolly chuckle. “No! You look amazing. Just make sure to brush them out when they get wet, or they clump together.”
Great. Add that to her list of things to do every morning. “Can you twim them, at weast?” She sounded like the priest in The Princess Bride.
“Why don’t you just sit with them a little while and get used to them. I’m telling you, you look wonderful. I can tell. This is my job. When that redness fades, you’ll be very happy, I’m confident. You wanted to look younger, and you will.”
She studied her reflection in the mirror. Maybe he was right. The redness was distracting, and the eyelashes were . . . long. And fanned out, like a peacock tail. Her lips were sore from the injections, and her gums throbbed from that thing they’d stuck in her mouth while whitening her teeth.
She wouldn’t want her girls to do this. Ever.
I’m sorry I put you through this, Face, she thought.
“Here’s the numbing cream,” Dr. Brian said. “In case the pain gets worse.”
* * *
— —
The pain got worse. Juliet called her office from I-95, said she had a migraine and went home. Thank God she’d taken the first available appointment of the day; the girls weren’t home yet, and she could have some time to ice her face. If they saw her like this, Brianna would give her that disgusted look she’d mastered this past year, and Sloane might cry.
Juliet’s face was still bright red. Some blood had crusted around her nose in tiny droplets. Not a great look. Frozen eyebrows. Her lips were throbbing and not noticeably fuller. Those ridiculous lashes. No one on earth would think they were natural.
There was only one person to call. She got into the house, tossed her bag on the table and took out her phone. “Mom? I’m having kind of a . . . cwisis here. Can you come over?”
“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Are the girls okay?”
“It’s nothing, except I need a wittle help. You’ll see when you get here.”
“Sure thing, hon. Give me fifteen minutes. I have to cancel a conference call.”
Juliet’s guilt was drowned out by gratitude. “Thanks, Mom.”
When her mom got there, her eyebrows shot up (lucky thing). “Oh, sweetheart. What did you do? One of those facial peels?”
“Something with needles.”
“I don’t think those false eyelashes are doing you any favors, hon.”
“They’re extensions. Can you twim them for me?”
Mom put down her coat and purse. “You betcha. Let’s get some ice on that face. It looks hot and painful.”
“It is.” She felt like crying. “I went to a pwastic surgeon. It’s so humiwiating. I just thought I needed a wittle . . . fweshening.”
“Why, honey? You’re beautiful just the way God made you.” Her mom smiled and kissed her forehead. “Let’s get you into bed. Go on now. Change into your jammies and I’ll get some stuff together down here.”
Juliet went upstairs and did as she was told. She had friends whose mothers were, to put it bluntly, ass pains. Kathy’s mother called her every day to complain that Kathy never called her. Jen’s mother had a gambling problem and constantly begged for money so she could buy scratch offs. Iris’s mother was cold and disapproving.
And Barb Frost was perfect. Oh, maybe not perfect, but damn near close. Who else would understand this ridiculous problem and help her fix it without judgment?
Mom came in with an ice pack wrapped in a dishcloth, and a cup of tea. She went into the bathroom and ran the water, then came out with a facecloth.
“Let’s get that blood off your face, okay?”
The cloth was warm, and Mom dabbed carefully. It felt so nice, being taken care of after putting herself through the torture of this morning, that a few tears did slip out.
“Everything okay with you and Oliver?” Mom asked.
“Yes. He’s wonderful. But I don’t want him to know I did this.”
“What exactly was it that you did, honey?”
“Micwoneedwing, eyewash extensions, wip injections, Botox and teeth whitening. I wook wike an idiot, and I feel worse.”
“Why did you do all that, hm?”
If Juliet told her the truth, Mom would worry. She had enough on her plate these days. Plus, Barb hated when she couldn’t help, and there was no helping here. She’d be distressed to hear that Juliet was aging out, that there was that tremor in the Force that had become a constant rumble, that someone else was now the favorite child. She’d given everything to Juliet, and it would distress her no end to hear her daughter was struggling.
And so she said, “Kathy wecommended it, and she wooked gweat, so I gave it a shot.”
“Well, Kathy needs it, hon. You can tell she was a sun worshipper. Skin like leather. You don’t need anything. Okay. Let’s take a look at these silly lashes.” She smiled. “You girls. So beautiful, and always trying new things when you don’t need to. Hold still and I’ll trim these a little.”
“Thanks, Mama.”
Yes. Forty-three years old and still calling her mother mama. Sometimes, Juliet thought her mom was the only person with whom she could be one hundred percent herself.
It was such a relief.
An hour later, the redness had faded. Her lips were less numb (though hardly at all fuller). Her lashes looked thick but not fake. “Looks like you had a little allergic reaction,” Mom said, and there it was, the perfect lie, the thing she could tell her husband and children.
“I love you, Mom.” Looked like she had her l’s back.
“I love you, too, sweetheart. So much. Oh! I’m having a little dinner party this weekend. You and Oliver are invited, of course. I’m inviting the event planner who’s helping with the town’s anniversary, she’s just been wonderful. And she’s single, and Sadie’s bringing her single teacher friend from New York. And you know, Sadie has no friends here, so I figured I’d get a little business done and help Sadie, too. Caro and Ted are coming, and I thought maybe it would do your father some good, having folks around. Can you make it? Friday night around seven.”
“I’ll call Riley and see if she can babysit,” Juliet said. “Thanks, Mom. Let me know what I can bring.”
“I have to get back to work now,” she said. “You just take a nap, all right? The girls will be home in an hour, so you just rest, honey. Everyone needs a break once in a while.”
Mom kissed her on the forehead, smoothed back her hair, and before she’d even left, Juliet was asleep.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Barb
Two days after Juliet needed me (the thought still gave me a warm feeling), Caro and I walked into a little café in Middle Haddam, which was far enough from Stoningham that we weren’t likely to run into anyone we knew.
We were meeting WORK.
“Cute place,” Caro said. “And clearly she’s not here yet. Let me get us something. You want a tea, I already know. Any cake or cookies?”
“I’m good, Caro. Thanks.” I wasn’t good. I was nervous. And still angry. And sad. And humiliated. And gosh-darn tired, too. I got up every night at three a.m. to give John his medication, and I wasn’t a young woman anymore. It often took me an hour or more to fall back asleep.
John had been home now for weeks. LeVon had become a fixture in our house, and that was a real blessing, I’ll tell you.
Sometimes, it felt like he was the son I’d never had. That first pregnancy of mine . . . I’d always thought the baby was a boy, and . . . well, sometimes I liked to picture what life would be like if
that baby had lived. He’d be about LeVon’s age—late forties. Maybe John and I wouldn’t have grown apart if I hadn’t struggled with infertility. Maybe Juliet would have relaxed a little more with a big brother to tease her, and Sadie would look up to him and be a little more responsible with him as a role model.
Most days, LeVon stayed a little late, joining me in a cup of tea before he left. It felt so comforting. Like he was protecting me, in some inexplicable way. He said he’d be with us until John’s recovery was mostly done, and gosh, that was a relief. I’d adopt him if I could, but he had a wife and three kids, and his parents lived next door to him, so I guess that was out.
“Okay,” Caro said, sitting down. “Any idea what she looks like?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“So they didn’t text pictures.”
“No. Thank God they didn’t do that, you know? I’d hate to have to see a dick pic.”
“The first selectman of Stoningham just said ‘dick pic’!” Caro said.
It wasn’t funny. It was awful. But it felt so good to laugh.
We settled down. I sipped my tea. Caro had already put in the sugar. She was drinking some monstrous thing with whipped cream. She also had a slab of coconut cake. “Go on, take a bite,” she said, sliding into the booth next to me. “You know you’re going to.”
I did. Oh, it was good. I needed to bake a cake. Maybe LeVon could bring half of it home to his family. Maybe John would like it, since his swallowing had improved and he could eat almost anything now.
“Is John getting any better, do they think?” Caro asked. “Mentally?”
“In little ways. He seems more alert from time to time. His walking is better, but he still needs help getting in and out of bed. He makes some sounds, but talking isn’t going so well. LeVon gave him a pen and paper, but he didn’t seem to know what to do with it.”
“Jesus, Barb. I don’t know how you do it.”
“In sickness and in health.”
“Yeah, and forsaking all others. Let’s not forget why we’re here, after all.”
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