Face, The (18 page)

Renee

O
nce I reach my room, I launch into preparations for Project Sarah. The restless feeling that has plagued me ever since my arrival has vanished; now that I have a clear goal, a new energy sparks in my blood.

Now…if only I can pursue my goals without upsetting Glenda Mewton’s highly important and highly classified applecart.

I pull my laptop from its case and boot it up. I’m relieved to discover that the convent has a Wi-Fi system in place. I may be breaking some kind of federal law by piggybacking off this signal, but Dr. Mewton can arrest me if she wants to. I’m not here to steal government secrets; I’m here to care for my niece.

Ten minutes later, I’m ready to toss my laptop across the room. The internal antenna or receiver or whatever it is absolutely refuses to log on.

I consider throwing a tempter tantrum, but am restrained by the saving grace of second thought. My niece, a computer savant, is working only a few yards away.

I scoop my laptop into my arms and trot up the stairs, happy to see that various guards no longer find it necessary to stop me at every floor. Apparently Glenda Mewton is beginning to trust me…at least a little.

I find Sarah in the computer-filled operations room on the second floor. She looks up, distracted, when I call her name, and it takes a moment for her to focus on me. “Yes?”

“I’m having trouble accessing the network. The whatchamacallit doesn’t seem to be working. Can you help?”

I hesitate at the threshold like a student awaiting permission to enter the teachers’ lounge, but she waves me in. She opens my laptop, clears the screen of everything but a blinking cursor, and types in a string of numbers and dots. The computer responds with an even longer string of numbers, letters, and dots, then she hands the machine back to me. “You’re in.”

“It’s fixed?”

“Yes.”

“What’d you do? Are you some kind of wizard?”

One corner of her mouth rises in a small smile. “I pinged my computer. See that number?” She taps the string on the screen. “That’s my IP address. I told your computer to look for my computer, and it did. The fact that you were able to find me proves we’re connected.”

“So your computer is found at cyberspace address 172.16.0.0?”

“Something like that.”

“That’s almost the year I was born…followed by my favorite age. Thanks, Sarah.”

“No problem.”

Grateful for the help, I leave the laptop open and powered on, then trot back downstairs. Once at my desk, I access Medline with my office password and look up “face transplant.” I’m reasonably sure Sarah will need a craniofacial surgeon to correct any lingering bone malformations, so Glenda Mewton will either have to find a qualified surgeon on the CIA payroll or convince someone else to operate for the good of God and country. I find an article about a doctor in Cleveland who has been cleared to do the surgery, so I jot her name on my tablet as a possible candidate for Sarah’s operation.

I read about the possible complications—Dr. Mewton has already mentioned the risk of tissue rejection, which means Sarah will have to take immunosuppressive drugs, possibly for many years. These may be expensive and may cause side effects, but won’t a life of freedom be worth it?

Finally, Sarah will need a donor. The French patient’s transplanted tissue came from a woman who expired from suicide, not disease, so we’ll have to wait for a donor from a similar situation. We may be waiting for some time, because not only will the blood and tissue types have to match, but the skin color will also have to coordinate with Sarah’s.

I take off my reading glasses and rub the bridge of my nose. The donor issue will be complicated by families’ natural reluctance to give up a part of the body that has so much to do with identity. We use faces to recognize each other, and to display almost every possible emotion. I’ve had patients who had trouble letting go of a deceased husband’s favorite shirt or sweater—how could they release something as personal as his face?

I click to another online article and read that out of 120 people surveyed at one hospital, the majority answered that they would accept someone else’s face if they needed one. No one, however, indicated that they would donate their own.

That fact dismays me even though I understand it. It’s hard to imagine someone else engaging the world behind the face we have worn throughout our lifetime.

My research assures me that the transplant recipient will not look like the donor. Even if some of the musculature and cartilage are included with the transplant, the elastic skin envelope will drape itself over the bone structure of the recipient. The result will be a hybrid, perhaps, but in Sarah’s case, definitely an improvement.

Furthermore, the age of the donor is not a primary concern. Skin health has less to do with its physical age than it does with the hormones and blood flow available to nourish it.

I put down my pen as the full weight of this responsibility bears down on me. If I am to do this, I’m going to be here longer than a few weeks. I may need to stay on this remote island for a year or more, depending on how things progress with Sarah.

An entire year…without tending my practice, my regular patients, or my oversize puppy.

I open my wallet and slide out the photograph of me and Kevin. I run my finger over the profile of his face and sort through the loose ends of my life.

I once concentrated on my practice so much that I lost a husband through inattention. I nursed a grudge against my sister-in-law and forfeited every opportunity to get to know her. I pouted at my brother’s wedding and missed the chance to share in his happiness.

If I allow my partners or my home or even my darling dog to draw me back before I’ve seen this through, I’ll have missed another opportunity that won’t come around again.

So I’ll ask Becky to keep an eye on my house and continue fostering Elvis. The big dog may miss me, but at Becky’s home he’s surrounded by adoring fans. I can ask her to cancel my magazine subscriptions or, better yet, enjoy them herself.

The room swells with silence as I realize that nothing in Virginia requires my immediate return. My neighbors barely know me; my patients will adapt to new doctors. Though some of them may balk, their reasons for resistance will have more to do with the discomfort of reiterating their problems than with breaking an attachment to me.

For the first time in my life, I realize that I may be like the proverbial hand in a bucket of water—pull it out, and no one even knows it’s missing.

But Sarah
needs
me. Because while we wait for a donor and a doctor, my niece is going to have to prepare for life beyond these walls. She’s going to have to learn how to use a face…and how to handle the emotions she will be expressing. She’ll have to learn that the dioramas of American life she’s glimpsed in movies are only a shadow of what awaits her.

I don’t want Sarah to live her life with a heart full of untapped potential.

I am skimming a summation of body dysmorphic disorder when Dr. Mewton steps into the room, intruding on my space without knocking. “Phone call for you,” she says, nodding toward the phone in the center of the conference table. “Just pick it up—the caller is waiting.”

I smile my thanks, despite the cold knot that has formed in my stomach. All the other doctors in my practice knew I’d be incommunicado for at least three weeks. No one knows where I am, and Becky is the only person who has an emergency number for me. And Becky would only call if she had a severe problem with a patient…or Elvis.

I wait until Dr. Mewton steps into the hall before picking up the phone. “Hello?”

“Renee?” Becky’s voice is breathless. “Listen, I know you didn’t want to be disturbed, but—”

“Patient or Elvis?”

I hear that pregnant pause that always precedes bad news. “Elvis. I’m so sorry, Renee, but I was chopping tomatoes. I turned my back for just a minute, and then the darn thing was gone. The kids and I searched the kitchen from top to bottom and couldn’t find it. I wasn’t too worried because Elvis just sat there grinning at us, but—”

“He ate a tomato?”

“He ate a steak knife. One of a matching set.”

“Is he
dead?
”

“He’s at the vet’s.”

I sink into a chair as my knees turn to water. “Are you sure he swallowed it? It couldn’t be behind the toaster or in that crack between the cabinet and the fridge?”

“The vet took an X-ray, hon. We saw the knife in his belly, clear as day.”

I lower my head to my hand and close my eyes. “That doofus.”

“I know. But this one’s not going to pass. The doctor says the knife has to come out. Surgically.”

I press my lips together and nod. “Okay. Have the operation, charge my account. Do whatever you have to do, but save that dumb dog.”

“I thought you’d feel that way. The vet wanted me to make sure, though.”

“Thanks. Thanks for calling.”

“No trouble. And hey—you sound a lot farther away than D.C. Where are you hiding yourself these days?”

For an instant I’m confused, then I remember that the CIA gave me a fake phone number with a D.C. area code. Someone at Langley redirected Becky’s call.

“Where am I? You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

She laughs. “Don’t worry about the dog. He’s in good hands.”

“Give the doofus a hug from me.”

I hang up and press my hands together as I offer a quiet, fervent prayer for the success of Elvis’s surgery. When I open my eyes, Dr. Mewton is standing at the end of the conference table.

“Why,” she asks, her eyes dark and brooding, “are you doing this?”

For an instant my head swarms with confusion, then I realize that she has to be talking about my promise to help Sarah. “Why does it matter to you?”

“Sarah matters to me.”

“She matters to me, too. I’m her family.”

“I’m her guardian. I’ve looked after her for twenty years, and I only want what’s best for the girl.”

“Then why do you want to imprison her?”

The woman shows her teeth in an expression that is not a smile. “Imprison her? I’m protecting her.”

“You’ve stifled her. You’re
using
her.”

“I’m employing her.”

“Only now. Why were you so keen on keeping her here before she was old enough to be employed by the CIA?”

“Somebody had to take care of the girl. No one in your family seemed interested.”

I draw a deep breath and try another tack. “I don’t know why you’re so set against this, Dr. Mewton. Maybe you’re gaining power or prestige from the work Sarah’s doing. Maybe she’s fulfilling your minuscule maternal instincts. I don’t know why you’re holding her back, but clearly you are.”

She sends me a glare hot enough to singe my eyebrows. “Don’t make assumptions, Dr. Carey. They can be dangerous.”

“I might say the same thing to you. Don’t assume you know what’s best for Sarah. She deserves the opportunities she should have been granted as a child.”

“What, opportunities to be mocked? Scorned? I don’t know what you’ve told her, but she will never be a beauty queen. Frankly, compared to the mess she was at birth, I think her face is a vast improvement.”

“She may not be a beauty queen after additional surgery, but she deserves a chance to speak to people without seeing them flinch or avert their eyes.”

“You think I want to protect her only because of her
appearance?
You misjudge me, Dr. Carey. I’m trying to protect her intellect, her very soul.”

“What sort of intellect flourishes in confinement? What soul finds its full expression in seclusion? We are social creatures, Dr. Mewton, so if you care for Sarah as much as you say you do, you’ll support her in her desire to be free. You and I ought to work together to do what’s best for her.”

Beneath the frozen surface of my adversary’s countenance, I see a suggestion of thawing and flowing, as though a submerged spring were trying to break through.

“It won’t be easy.” She steps forward to place her hands on the table. “I can foresee a dozen major risks.”

“You have resources—far more than I do. If you help us, you’ll earn Sarah’s undying gratitude…and her affection.”

I am guessing, of course, that Sarah’s affection is what this lonely woman craves. When a trace of wistfulness steals into her expression, I’m sure I’ve guessed correctly.

“I do want to help her,” Dr. Mewton says, lowering her voice. “And I have read about facial transplants. But the risks are so high.”

“Such as?”

“Rejection, of course. Some of the immunosuppressive drugs can lower a patient’s resistance to other illnesses. Sarah could be trading a cloistered life for a considerably shorter one.”

“Not necessarily. A researcher in Cleveland has managed to induce long-term tolerance to hind-leg transplants with a drug regimen lasting only seven days.”

“In rats. Sarah is human.”

“Sarah is an adult. Shouldn’t we let her make her own choices?”