Face, The (17 page)

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.

He rolls up next to me, stopping when he feels the brush of my fingertips. For a long moment we sit in the red rays of sunrise, saying nothing.

“So—are you going to tell me about your trip into the big city?” he finally asks.

“It was interesting,” I answer. “Made a baby cry, freaked out a waitress, tripped and fell in front of dozens of people—Oh, and got hit by a car.”

“Were you hurt?”

“No.”

His face twists in an odd expression, then he shakes his head. “I don’t get it, kiddo. Being deaf isn’t that big a deal, and though you’re a gold-plated genius, I’ve never gotten the feeling you’re too cerebral for public consumption. So what aren’t you telling me?”

How do I tell him? I drop my hand to his arm and squeeze.

“Sarah? What’s wrong?”

I lift my face to the sky. Only when I open my mouth to answer do I taste the salt of tears and realize that I’ve been crying. “Jud…”

“I’m here, kiddo.”

I grasp his hands and slip to my knees. As his brows rush together, I place his warm, gentle palms on the wet planes of my face. For a moment he doesn’t move, then his sensitive fingers rise to my hairline and flutter down, gently probing the areas where my eyes, cheeks, nose, and lips should be.

“Lord have mercy,” he finally says, dropping his hands into his lap. “You poor baby.”

I turn and sink to the ground, resting my shoulder against the solidity of one of his sawed-off stumps. His hand falls on my hair, and we sit without speaking until the tower bell chimes the morning Angelus.

When the last chime drifts away on the breeze, Judson’s broad hand pats the top of my head. “Thank you,” he says, “for being brave enough to show me your scars. But you’re a fool, Sarah Sims, if you think you’ve just shown me your true self.”

I turn and gape at him, as surprised by his words as by his unsympathetic tone. “Did you just call me a fool?”

“Turn up your hearing aid, girl, so I won’t have to repeat myself. Yes, for a genius you can be remarkably dull-witted.”

I scramble to my feet and sputter as I wipe damp gravel from the back of my pants. “Why—And to think I trusted—”

“Calm down, kiddo. So you have facial scars, so what? You’re living in a hospital. The agency would do anything for you. Get yourself fixed up and get out of here.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“I’m not the individual under discussion,
you
are. I’ve lived in the world—I’ve created a family and left my mark. You haven’t even scratched the surface of life.”

I seethe in silence, desperately searching for some verbal missile to fling at him.

“Things are beginning to make sense,” Jud says. “Your aunt—she’s urging you to get help, isn’t she?

“How do you know that?”

He snorts. “Come on, kid, give me credit for having learned a few things in my lifetime. Well, your aunt’s right. She must have leaped quite a few hurdles to get here, so don’t blow her off. Listen to her, Sarah. Whatever she’s offering, take it.”

I swallow hard and drop to the bench. “She wants me to get surgery. A face transplant.”

Jud’s brows rise. “Wow.”

“But—what if I’m damaged beyond repair? I’m like Brooks Hatlen in
The Shawshank Redemption.
I can’t imagine living…out there.”

Judson’s hand reaches across the empty space between us and finds mine. “Brooks was the inmate with the bird, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you know that one day that bird’s mama pushed him out of the nest. You can fly, Sarah. You only have to spread your wings.”

I can only squeeze his hand in answer. He’s obviously feeling a lot more confident than I am.

Renee

B
y the time I make it to the dining room for breakfast, Sarah, Judson, and Dr. Mewton are already seated. When I take my place at the table, Sarah puts down her spoon, glances at Judson, and then looks directly at me. “I want to have the face transplant,” she says. “I’ve decided. I’ll do whatever it takes to look like a normal person.”

Dr. Mewton’s face flushes, her mouth pursing into a tight knot. “Sarah, you can’t be serious.”

“I am. Aunt Renee said she’s going to check into the details. I’ll have the transplant and whatever reconstructions are necessary to have a normal face.”

“But you said you didn’t want any more surgeries. You may not remember all the pain you suffered, but I do. When you were in such agony you couldn’t sleep, I was the one who rocked you until you stopped sniffling.”

“Sure, you helped, and so did the morphine,” Sarah quips, and I have to admire her quick wit. “But what did the old mermaid tell the little princess? ‘One must suffer to be beautiful.’”

“Hans Christian Andersen.” I meet her gaze and smile. “I’ve always loved that story.”

“You want to be beautiful?” Mewton snorts. “Sarah, so many things are more important than physical beauty. You are brilliant and talented and skilled. Plus, the company depends on you. I depend on you. You can’t forget that.”

Sarah picks up her spoon. “I’ll work when I can. But if medical coverage is a benefit of my employment, then the company shouldn’t begrudge me the time to finish the job they started years ago.”

Glenda Mewton jerks her head in my direction. “What about Dr. Carey? She’ll be leaving soon. If you’re serious about this, you’re going to need weeks of preparatory therapy, a regimen of immunosuppressive drugs, and at least two teams of sophisticated microsurgeons. I don’t have time to—”

“I have time,” I interrupt, surprising even myself. When every face at the table turns toward me, I know what my next step will be. “This is part of my work for the agency, isn’t it? I’ll give Sarah all the time she needs.”

Ignoring Dr. Mewton’s glower, I reach across the table and pat Sarah’s hand. “I may have missed your childhood, but I’ll be here for you now. I’ll oversee the research, talk to the surgeons, whatever you need me to do. We’ll get you ready, not only for your transplant, but for your new life.”

Sarah elbows Judson, who holds up his hand for her triumphant high-five. And as Dr. Mewton sighs and closes her eyes, I wonder what, exactly, I have promised to do.

But I have no regrets. I’ve come halfway around the world to assure Kevin’s daughter that she is not alone. I will not walk away from her now.

Sarah

I
’m working in the operations room when I receive an instant message from Dr. M:
Need to see you at once. My office.

What could she want? I stand and tell Judson I’ve been summoned, then head down to Dr. M’s office. She’s sitting at her desk, obviously waiting.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Come in, Sarah. And close the door behind you, please.”

I sit in the chair across from her desk and blink when she lifts a trembling hand to smooth her hair away from her forehead. “I’m so upset I don’t know where to begin.”

“Dr. Mewton?”

“Give me a moment, please.” She leans back and squeezes the bridge of her nose. “Sarah, about your announcement at breakfast this morning…”

“Yes?”

“I wouldn’t get my hopes up. The surgery your aunt mentioned is highly risky, still experimental, and fraught with complications. I don’t want to see you pin your hopes on this procedure and then be disappointed.”

I fold my hands and try to remain calm. “I still want to investigate it.”

“But why? Aren’t you happy here? Haven’t we done enough for you? We have given you everything you ever needed—food, shelter, clothing, medical care, affection…”

“What about freedom? Choices? A chance to discover that I might have a life apart from the agency?” I struggle to find words that won’t hurt this woman who has given me so much. “I’m grateful for everything, Dr. M, but if there’s a chance I could live like other people, I want to take it.”

“Didn’t you learn anything from your experience last night? I heard your trip into the city didn’t go so well.”

I close my eyes. “I learned that living among other people with this face would be…difficult. So I want a transplant.”

“Have you considered what might happen if the transplant fails? You don’t have enough spare skin on your body to replace a skin graft.”

I swallow hard. “If it fails…I’ll cope. I can’t be any worse off than I am now.”

Dr. M chokes out a laugh. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“How do you know?” I lift my chin and meet her hard eyes. “In a way, I’m already dead to the world. Fewer than twenty people even know I exist. Fewer than ten know me personally. What is living, if it’s not knowing and being known?”

She breathes deep and rubs her hands over her arms. “There are worse things than anonymity,” she says. “Far worse things.”

“Oh, yeah?”

She raises her gaze in a swift, sharp look. “I don’t like to speak of the past, but trust me—being used is worse than being ignored. The world is filled with people who will hurt you if you let them get too close.”