Face, The (12 page)

She stands, and her voice is light as she steps toward the door. “I think that can be arranged.”

Sarah

B
eneath the hum and flicker of the dining room’s fluorescent lights, I watch as my aunt laughs at one of Judson’s tired jokes. His face positively glows when she talks to him, and his smile spreads when she places her hand on his arm—something she often does when she speaks. I never touch Judson, and neither does Dr. Mewton. Neither of them routinely touches me. Is this practice peculiar to my aunt, or do other people casually touch when they talk?

I can’t deny that her presence has cast a spell over our little threesome. I felt her power the moment she opened the door to her room. I saw her standing there, framed by the doorway, and for a moment I couldn’t speak. Though I had watched her on the monitors, the pixelated two-dimensional image could not convey the full reality of who she is. Her presence—her texture, her warmth, her vitality—could not be conveyed on the screen.

Only after we began to converse did I realize that she is only the fifth woman I have seen up close. I have known Dr. Mewton and Shelba for years, and twice we sheltered female officers who came to the convent—one for plastic surgery, the other to recuperate from serious chemical burns. Neither of those women behaved anything like Dr. Renee Carey.

Other women visit this facility, of course. They rotate in and out with the medical teams, but they tend to remain isolated in the upstairs hospital unit. On more than one occasion a visiting female has caught a glimpse of me near the workout room, and she has always turned her head and hurried away. Not one of them has ever come forward to talk to me. The reason may have something to do with security, but I suspect it has more to do with the natural human tendency to avoid monsters.

Dr. Renee Carey, on the other hand, has no monstrous characteristics. I’ve decided that she looks a bit like Audrey Hepburn in the post-
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
years. Even though he cannot see her, Judson certainly seems to find her attractive. She must have what others refer to as
charm.

During a break in the chatter between Judson and my aunt, I jump into the conversation. “Do you like Audrey Hepburn?”

My aunt blinks. “
My Fair Lady’
s Audrey Hepburn?”

“Good grief, Sarah,” Judson says, “where on earth did that come from?”

My neck burns with humiliation, but my aunt laughs. “I do like Audrey,” she answers, “but Katherine has always been my favorite Hepburn. I love those old movies with her and Spencer Tracy.”

I make a mental note. “I must have missed those.”

“They’re oldies but goodies.” Dr. Carey folds her hands over her now-empty plate. “I love old movies, but I prefer the theater. Have you ever seen a play, Sarah?”

Why is she asking? She knows I don’t leave the island, but maybe this is a probe, like those I’ve developed for the Gutenberg program. My aunt the psychologist is trying to discover what experiences I have in my brain.

“I’ve seen plays on DVD,” I tell her, glad that I can answer in the affirmative. “One weekend I watched all ten hours of
Nicholas Nickleby.
”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Very much.”

“I’m sure it was good,” she says, picking up her water glass, “but there’s nothing quite like being in the theater, right down front. When you can hear every gasp and see every drop of perspiration on the actors’ brows…that’s a unique experience.”

I lift my chin. “The DVD version was exceptional.”

Judson leans in my aunt’s direction. “Last time I was in New York, the wife and I saw—” he scratches his shaved head “—you know, the play about the French Revolution.”

She smiles at him. “Musical?”

“Yes.”

“You must mean
Les Miserables.
”

“That’s it!” Judson snaps his fingers. “That show lasted nearly three hours, but it was unbelievable. I’ll never forget it.”

If they’re trying to make me hunger for new experiences…they’re doing a better job than they realize.

I turn the focus of our conversation back to our visitor. “Do you have children, Dr. Carey?”

She widens her eyes and takes a quick sip from her glass. “Unfortunately, I spent the first five years of my marriage establishing my practice. By the time the business was strong enough for me to think about maternity leave, I had managed to lose my husband.”

“But why does a woman need a husband to have a baby? In
Baby Boom, The Natural,
and
One Fine Day,
women prove to be perfectly capable of raising children alone.”

Dr. Carey lowers her glass and gives me a direct look. “Listen, Sarah, films can be wonderful entertainment, but they’re rarely realistic. I talk to unhappy people all day, and I can’t help noticing that a lot of unhappiness stems from homes where children felt neglected because their parents were absent or too busy. I didn’t think it would be fair to offer a child one distracted mother when he deserved two committed parents.”

Shelba enters the dining room, a freshly starched apron tied around her waist. She smiles at my aunt and gestures to the table. “The dinner was good?”

“Delicious,” Dr. Carey says, setting her napkin on the table. “Thank you very much.”

I watch, amazed at the graceful ballet between her words and gestures. Without being told, she has placed her napkin to the left of her dinner plate, exactly where Judson has left his. Now Jud is wheeling away as the doctor stands, both of them perfectly in sync with some music I can’t hear…

I drop my napkin onto my plate and stand, too, not willing to be left behind. “Dr. Carey, would you like to see my apartment?”

“Yes,” my aunt says, hesitating only an instant. “I’d like that very much.”

Renee

S
arah’s use of the word
apartment
to describe her one-room living space is about as accurate as the real estate agent’s description of a fifth-floor walk-up as “a fitness lover’s dream.” A twin bed rests against the plaster wall, covered by a fuzzy afghan and several throw pillows. Two pairs of sneakers are conjoined in tumbled comradeship at the base of an antique armoire, while a lamp, a hairbrush, and a half dozen flash drives lie scattered over the top of a dresser. Movie posters adorn the walls, the largest of which features Gloria Swanson’s luminous face in
Sunset Boulevard.

A computer desk dominates the business end of the room. Two monitors, a keyboard, a laptop, a mouse, and an external hard drive crowd the top of the desk. I spy other pieces of equipment, but to my technologically untrained eye they look like a jumble of wires, cables, and boxes.

“Impressive.” I slip my hands into my pockets as I jerk my chin toward the mess. “Obviously, you know more than I do about computers.”

Sarah drops into the desk chair, sitting on one bent knee. “This is just…stuff. It’s what we do with the stuff that’s important.”

“I’m sure it is.” I glance around for another chair, but apparently she doesn’t entertain many guests.

“Did you…” she begins, her voice tentative. “Did you happen to bring a photo album or something? I’d like to know more about my dad, maybe see pictures of him when he was my age.”

“I’m sorry, Sarah, I didn’t bring pictures. But I did bring something else.” I reach into my purse and pull out a small plastic trophy—a gold loving cup that must have cost forty-nine cents at some cheesy gift shop.

I sink to the edge of her bed and smile at my distorted image in the cup. “When I was thirteen, Kevin joined me, Mom, and Dad at an old-fashioned church dinner on the grounds. They had a three-legged race after lunch, and Kevin and I won this for first place. It’s nothing, really, but I think that was the happiest moment of my life.”

Sarah leans forward in her chair. “What’s a three-legged race?”

“You’ve never seen one? Not even in a movie?”

“No.” Her tone has soured.

“Two people,” I explain. “They stand side by side and bind their inside legs at the thigh, knee, and ankle. So when the race begins, they have to work together or they fall together.” I meet her gaze and hold out the trophy. “Kevin’s not with me anymore, but sometimes I can hear his voice in my heart. I think he’d want you to have this. And I think he’d want you and me to work together.”

She takes the little trophy and studies it as if it’s a priceless treasure. “Work together in what way?”

I gather up my courage and bend to peer into her face. “I didn’t bring a photo album because I thought I was coming only for a short visit. And, to be honest, I was hoping I could convince you to visit me sometime. There’s no reason we have to remain apart, you know.”

She swivels her chair toward the wall and sets the trophy on a corner of her desk. “Come on, Dr. Carey. You know I can’t leave the convent.”

“I don’t know that. You can do anything you want to do.”

“Like this?” She turns and points to her face. “I know how people will respond to me. I saw how you reacted this afternoon, and you’d been prepared.” She shakes her head. “I’ve read about people like me—burn victims who end up committing suicide, and cancer patients who would rather stay in their homes than venture out and show the world how tumors have eaten away at their faces. So thanks for the invitation, but I think I’m better off staying here.”

What can I say? She
will
be more sheltered here, but behind these walls she’ll never have a chance to experience life in all its fullness.

“I don’t know, Sarah.” I keep my voice light as I stand and move to her dresser. “Everyone is born with virtually unlimited potential. I think we’re meant to spend every bit of it and die without a smidgen of promise left.”

I run my fingertips over the edge of the bureau, where behind the jumbled cords and a hairbrush I spy a plastic case filled with mounted coins—British guineas, crowns, and gold sovereigns. American pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters. The Canadian two-dollar coin known as a “tooney.” The miniature portraits of Washington, Lincoln, Roosevelt, and Queen Elizabeth wink at me in the lamplight.

“You like coins?” I ask, delighted to have found that she has an interest in something outside this facility.

She shrugs. “I used to collect them when I was younger. Dr. Mewton would bring them to me.”

I pick up the plastic case and examine it in the lamplight. “I don’t recognize this big piece—the one with the two menonit.”

She rises out of her chair to glance at the case, then settles back down. “That’s Juan Carlos of Spain and his son, Felipe. That’s two thousand pesetas.”

“Ah.” I set the case back on the dresser, taking care to avoid hitting the lamp. “I don’t know much about foreign coins, I’m afraid. I suppose it’ll be easier now that so many countries are using the Euro.”

“Those coins aren’t as nice,” she says, “but I do like the Spanish Euro. It features Juan Carlos and Sofia on the face.”

I grip the edge of the dresser as the truth crashes into me. Every coin here features a portrait—not a building, a monument, symbol, but a human
face.

My brother’s daughter has spent a lifetime collecting faces—first on coins, then on movie posters. She may never have admitted the truth to herself, but she has yearned for the thing that makes us most human, the thing she doesn’t have.

Instinct tells me that in all that face collecting, she’s been longing for something else she lacks. A father. A mother. A sister. Anyone she can call
family.

In the silence of the room, I catch my breath and hear my heart break—a clean, sharp sound, like the snap of a pencil.

I am going to help her. I’m not sure how to proceed, but Sarah will let me know what she needs.

“Sarah.” I spin around and squeeze her shoulders, bending until our eyes are only inches apart. “Sweetheart, I think I understand some of what you’ve been feeling. There’s a wonderful world out there, and I’d love to help you experience it. Say you’ll at least think about coming to visit me, okay?”

She hesitates. “Yeah, sure. I’ll think about it.”

“Good.” I close my eyes and press my lips to her uneven hairline. “On that note, I’ll leave you so I can get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

And as I walk down the stairs that will lead me back to my room, my thoughts drift to
Sunset Boulevard
and the radiant Norma Desmond. In the musical version, Norma’s former director sings an aria about the moment he first saw the young actress and knew he’d found his perfect face….

In Sarah Sims, I’ve found an imperfect face. But I might have also found my heart.

Sarah

W
hen my aunt has gone, I pull a random DVD from my favorites drawer and pop the disc into my computer, not caring what might appear on the screen. Whatever it is, the movie is bound to carry me away from troubling thoughts and unanswerable questions.

I settle into a nest of pillows on my bed as Jack Nicholson appears on the splash screen for
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
Within a few minutes, I am involved in the movie, wrapped up in the triumphs and challenges of Randle Patrick McMurphy as he faces the despotic Nurse Ratched.

As the familiar plot unfolds, however, for the first time certain aspects of Randle’s environment strike me as familiar. The hallways of his insane asylum are wide and empty. Guards patrol the halls of his home. A thin-lipped woman in white rules his world. Nurse Ratched gives every indication of being friendly until pushed, then she pushes back with unyielding force…just like someone I know.

On a whim, I minimize the movie player and open the program that allows me to cycle through the security cameras—obvious and hidden—throughout the facility. Within five clicks, I am watching Aunt Renee’s first floor room; another click brings me into her bathroom. Aunt Renee is standing in front of the sink, her hands lathered, her eyes closed as she splashes her face with water.

I prop my elbows on the desk and lower my head into my hands as I study the screen. She is wearing a T-shirt and a pair of baggy pajama bottoms, not at all what I would have imagined for her. Her short hair has been pushed back from her forehead, and the bangs are damp from the water she’s splashing over her face and neck.

She grabs a towel and gently pats—not rubs—her face dry. I blink as she hangs the damp towel on a rack. She leans toward the mirror and peers at her reflection, her eyes wide as she tilts her head and checks her face for…what? Imperfections? Signs of age?

Apparently satisfied with what she’s seen, she pulls a bottle from a little zippered bag and squirts some sort of lotion or cream into her palm. The bottle goes back into the bag, then she touches her hands together and begins to rub the lotion into her face and throat. After smoothing the liquid over her cheeks, she uses her pinky finger to delicately pat the area under her eyes. She smoothes lotion over her brows, then grimaces into the mirror and checks her teeth. Finally, she wipes her hands on the towel and gives herself a smile before turning out the light.

I lean back in my chair and bring my own fingertips to touch my neglected cheek. Does my aunt perform this loving ritual every night?

The thought brings back a memory of Dr. Mewton dropping onto the edge of my bed with a tube in her hand. I was young, probably no more than four or five, and she said the ointment would help my skin heal after surgery. I still remember the astringent smell of the cream, the pressure of her hand on my ragged skin, and the sharp tone of her voice. “This is about as useful as rubbing skin softener on a crocodile,” she said, her words slicing through the haze of pain surrounding me. “Still, one has to follow procedures.”

At a sudden sound in the hall, I bring
Cuckoo’s Nest
back up on my screen. And later, as Chief Bromden breaks through the bars and escapes through the open window of the asylum, I find myself wondering what it might mean to live free. How would it feel to walk down a street and stop to look at anything I pleased? What would it mean if I could make plans for a trip to Alaska…or decide to have lunch at a mall?

I punch my pillow and rest my chin on my fist. Is Disney World really a magical kingdom? Is the Lincoln Memorial as majestic as it looks? What does a McDonald’s hamburger taste like? If they’ve sold billions worldwide, they must be the best things on earth.

“
Cuckoo’s Nest
again?” Judson rolls into my apartment as the closing credits scroll. “Don’t you ever get tired of watching the same movies?”

“No.” I sit up to greet him. “It’s late. Can’t you sleep?”

“Wanted to talk to you about our guest before I turn in. So…what’d you think?”

I pick up the remote and power off the monitor. “You certainly seemed to like her.”

He laughs. “Hey, I’ve always gotten along with the ladies. But you…do you think you’ll end up living with her?”

“What?”

He grins. “Don’t play innocent with me, kid—these walls aren’t as thick as you think.”

I drop back onto my pillows. “I’m not living anywhere else.”

“Why not? How many times have I told you this isn’t the right place for a girl of your age.”

“And I’ve told you that you don’t understand. I don’t fit out there.”

“And why don’t you fit?”

“Because I’m a freak.”

Judson snorts. “Every kid feels that way at one point or another. I used to think I was a freak because I wore size fourteen sneakers. Now I
know
I’m a freak because I have two fourteen-inch stumps. But life is flowing by out there, kid, and you need to jump in.”

I pound my pillow. “I can’t swim.”

“It’s never too late to learn.”

“Oh, yeah? Then why don’t you dive back into the real world?”

“I told you, I can’t.”

“I can’t go, either. I can’t leave my work.”

“Are you kidding? You’re not the only techno-genius on the payroll. Within a week, Mr. Traut will be assigning impossible tasks to someone else.”

“How can I leave Dr. M? She depends on me.”

“Mewton depends on this place. As long as it’s here, she’ll be fine.”

I glare at him, hoping he can feel the heat from my stare. He may never understand. And I may never hear the end of his blustering.

Fortunately, I have a remedy for it.

“I’m going to bed,” I tell him, punching my pillow again.

He laughs. “You think that’s going to shut me up? Darkness means nothing to me, kid.”

“I’m taking off my processor,” I say, pulling the mechanism from my ear. “So talk all you want, Jud, but know that I can’t hear you anymore. Good night.”

Silence swallows up his ranting as I switch off the device and set it on the nightstand. Then I close my tired eyes and lie on my left side until unconsciousness claims me.