Face, The (21 page)

Sarah

I
t’s seven o’clock by the time I return to my desk, which means it’s 2:00 p.m. in Washington. Mr. Traut is in the middle of a conference and waiting for my call. He patches me in and puts me on speakerphone.

“We’ve been waiting to hear from you, Sarah,” he says, his voice tight. “We’ve come up with a new wrinkle we’d like you to incorporate in the Gutenberg program.”

Not knowing who else is listening to this call, I respond carefully. “Yes, sir?”

“The other day you sent us a memo about how imagined alibis can leave verifiable traces on a brain scan.”

“I remember.”

“Would you mind explaining that for the people in this room?”

I glance at the printed copy of the report on my desk. Can’t the people with Traut
read?

“Functional MRI,” I begin, “or brain fingerprinting, is based on the idea that the brain releases a recognizable electric signal when processing a memory. Unfortunately, we’ve discovered that it’s nearly impossible to distinguish between brain signals produced by actual events and those manufactured by the imagination.”

“Are you trying to say—” a rough voice interrupts “—that we’ve wasted hundreds of hours pursuing a technology that is never going to be useful?”

“I don’t think we’ve wasted anything, sir. We’ve simply learned that we need to work with well-defined, specific cues. If we probed a murder suspect, for instance, we might determine that he had the victim’s face, address, and a gun in his memories. But it’d be difficult to know if he actually committed murder or only
thought
about committing murder without definitive details available only from the crime scene.”

“So we’re going to have to work with local police departments?” The tone of the man’s voice suggests that this is not a desirable prospect.

“Perhaps,” I answer. “Whether we do or not, we’ll need details. For instance, an imagined murder might reveal knowledge of a gun in a suspect’s brain. But the real murderer’s brain scan might reveal knowledge of a Rohrbaugh R-9. The key to success will lie in specificity.”

“That’s excellent, Sarah.” Mr. Traut’s voice brims with approval. “What we’d like you to do now is consider the possibility of reversing the process.”

“Sir?”

“Could we plant certain explicit memories
into
a subject’s mind? For instance, if we put together a code that fed electronic signals into a human brain, could we not program a subject with detailed, specific memories?”

While the people in the conference room murmur in hushed whispers, the question hovers before me like a hallway with a dozen locked doors.

I clear my throat. “I fail to see a useful application for this, sir.”

“You don’t have to see the application. I want to know if it’s possible.”

“I suppose so. Information flows in two directions.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Sarah.”

The line clicks, and the receiver in my hand goes dead. I set the phone back on its base, then lower my head into my hands and mentally replay the conversation. I picture myself slipping the device we’ve developed on Judson’s skull, I see myself taking Dr. Mewton’s EEG and feeding her memories into my friend’s brain….

In a barely comprehendible flash, I understand. Mr. Traut wants to create sleeper agents. They have been the subject of dozens of spy films, including the 1977 classic
Telefon,
staring Charles Bronson. The movie was pure fiction in its day, but now the idea is plausible. Possible.

We could implant specific memories of a mission in an agent’s mind, memories that could be buried deep and resurrected by a code word. In
Telefon,
the trigger was a line of a Robert Frost poem, today it might be a single word, a name, a number, even a scent. Upon activation, the buried memories could become as real as a direct command, and the officer could be compelled to complete the mission he thought he had been given.

Gutenberg…the world’s first printing press.

Now I understand. From the beginning, Mr. Traut has intended to imprint something far more powerful than words on paper.

My aunt is still AWOL at breakfast the next morning. But before I have finished my cream of wheat, Dr. Mewton stops into the dining room to tell me that Aunt Renee has been given one of the small rooms on the hospital floor for her use. “She’s expecting you this morning,” Dr. M says, “so don’t disappoint her.”

When I jog upstairs, I find Aunt Renee in a transformed examination room. The elevated exam table has been pushed against the wall and covered with a sheet. The center of the room has been filled by a table on which rests a computer, two monitors, two cups of coffee, and two mirrors.

I try not to look at the shiny ovals as I greet my aunt. “Good morning.”

“The same to you.” She smiles and props one hand on her hip. “Are you ready to begin?”

“I suppose.”

“Good. Since I skipped breakfast, I brought coffee.” Aunt Renee gestures toward the steaming mugs as she pulls out a chair on the far side of the table. With nowhere to sit except across from her, I pull out the other chair.

“I’ll be right with you,” she says, picking up a book and thumbing through it. “I just need to find a certain page…”

I fold my hands and avoid the freestanding mirror as I wait. I’m actually
more
than ready to begin whatever procedures she has planned. Last night I watched
The Bourne Identity,
and as the scenes played on my computer I couldn’t help wondering how it would feel to be Jason Bourne or the girl, Marie. At one point Marie crossed a crowded street, and my skin contracted into gooseflesh as she moved into traffic.
I’ve done that.
I’ve stepped into a busy street and felt the smack of an automobile bumper against my hip.

A week ago, I wouldn’t have felt that frisson of familiarity.

“Tell me,” I say, watching as she flips through her book. “when you move among people all the time, do the things you see in film and read about in novels—do they come alive for you?”

She stops flipping and looks at me. “Come again?”

“Do you begin to identify with everything?”

Her lips curve upward. “Not with everything, especially not with some of the things you see in films these days. But identify? That’s what books and film are supposed to do—through vicarious life experiences, they help readers and viewers understand the world we live in. This kind of learning helps us empathize with people we might never meet or understand.”

I shrug. “I wondered.”

“That’s an astute observation, Sarah.” She flattens her book on the table and smoothes the page. “I wanted to share this quote with you: ‘The face is the mirror of the mind, and eyes without speaking confess the secrets of the heart.’ That’s from St. Jerome, and it applies to what we’re going to talk about today.”

“We’re going to discuss poetry?”

“No, reading. Face reading.” She looks at me—more intently than anyone has looked at me in a long time. “The ordinary human face—the kind of face you will soon have—can create over seven thousand different facial expressions. Forty-four different subdermal muscles help us send signals with our mouths, eyes, cheeks, and noses. Far more is communicated through body and facial language than through words.”

I cross my arms, not certain why she’s telling me this. “I’ve seen people smile and frown. Do you think I don’t know what those things mean?”

Before she can answer, someone raps on the door. A man steps into the room, an older man who looks me square in the face and smiles as though he’s genuinely happy to see me.

I’m so startled I can barely speak.

Renee

“G
ood morning, ladies.”

I sit back and cover my smile as Dr. Kollman greets his startled patient with an outstretched hand. “I’m Vincent, and I’m going to give you a new face.”

A blush creeps up Sarah’s neck as she stands. As he continues to talk to her in a relaxed, calm voice, I wonder how many men my niece has known over the years. Doctors and patients frequently rotate in and out of this place, but I doubt Sarah’s had much interaction with them. She’s noticed the guards, and she frequently mentions Mitch, but I’ve seen how she scurries away when he glances in her direction. She’s never known a father, and I doubt that Jack Traut spends much time here.

The only real male friend Sarah has is Judson, and he’s blind. So who has served as her male role models, Mel Gibson and Tom Cruise? Or has she, like so many other orphaned children, created a fantasy father?

I jot a note in my folio as Dr. Kollman pulls a plastic tape measure from the pocket of his lab coat and teasingly touches one end to Sarah’s chin. When her flush deepens, I suspect this may be the first man who has ever looked her in the eye and held her gaze. She is fortunate, then, that the doctor who will be handling her case is as kind as Vincent Kollman. I’ve only known the man a few hours, but I’ve been impressed by his compassion and gentleness.

“Excuse me for interrupting, but I need to take a few measurements,” he says, pulling a chart from beneath his arm. “I need to calibrate the machine so we can do an MRI later this morning. With a clear picture of your facial bone structure, I’ll know exactly what we’re looking for when we begin our search for a donor.”

Sarah glances over her shoulder at me. “I meant to ask about that…. Am I going to be stealing someone else’s face?”

Dr. Kollman shakes his head. “You won’t be stealing anything, Sarah—you need to consider the donation a gift. And you won’t look like the donor when we’re done. You’ll look like the woman you were meant to be.”

When Sarah bows her head and doesn’t respond immediately, I’m afraid the doctor has somehow offended her. But when she covers her face and her shoulders begin to shake in slow, silent sobs, I realize he has touched something within her, something too deep for words.

He’s touched me, too. His attitude will help Sarah feel that her new face is a restoration, not something she took from someone less fortunate.

“While we’re waiting for a donor,” Dr. Kollman continues, gallantly pretending not to notice her reaction, “Dr. Carey will help you learn to use the face you’ll soon be enjoying. So…does all of that make sense to you?”

Sarah pulls herself together and lifts her head in a teary nod. “Is it possible…after the donation, I mean…is it possible to thank the family?”

Vincent pulls a packet of tissues from his coat pocket and presses it into her hand. “These things are usually kept anonymous. You can write a letter, perhaps, and we’ll make sure it’s delivered to the family. But you will never know the donor’s name.”

A tear slips from her lashless eyes. “Why?”

He glances at me. “Dr. Carey may be able to explain this better, but I think anonymity is guaranteed so families can heal. The donor’s relatives will want to know that the gift was helpful, but after that, they’ll need to grieve and move on.”

“He’s right, Sarah.” I give her a smile and gesture to her empty chair. “And if you’ll sit down, we’ll let the doctor take his measurements. We have a lot to do before we’re ready to think about thank-you letters.”

Sarah sniffs, wipes wetness from beneath her eyes, and sits, a willing student at last.

Sarah

I
know I shouldn’t be upset, but the MRI is proving to be an unpleasant experience. Lying on this imaging platform isn’t painful, nor can I feel the magnetic waves scanning my brain. But my palms are perspiring, because something in this process has unleashed a horde of memories that keep battering their boundaries and threatening my composure.

These are sharp-voiced, needle-toothed recollections I’d rather forget. Despite my determination to keep them pent up, my heart has begun to pound and my teeth are threatening to chatter. I’m supposed to lie still and not move, but I’m doing everything I can to keep from leaping up, scrambling off the table, and canceling the entire procedure.

Why am I doing this? Am I doing it for my aunt? Am I doing it because I was so idiotically happy to meet someone who knew my father that I’d agree to walk across hot coals if she wanted me to?

Come to think of it, hot coals might be less painful than the surgery I’ve agreed to. I haven’t gone under a knife in years, but I remember lying in a bed with my arms strapped down so I wouldn’t touch my stitches. I remember whimpering because it hurt too much to cry.

As if she’s read my mind, Aunt Renee’s voice drifts over the intercom. “I know this might be uncomfortable for you, Sarah, but close your eyes and try to relax. Think of the future. Think about how glad you’ll be a year from now. Think of what you have to gain.”

I grit my teeth and try to do what she says. My final result will depend on the skill of my surgeons and the characteristics of the donor, I suppose, but I could walk out of here looking like an impish pixie, a sloe-eyed beauty, or the all-American girl. I could be given a turned-up nose or a broad-through-the-nostrils model. I could have bee-stung lips or a narrow mouth. My complexion could be pocked or as smooth as silk.

I snort softly as I imagine the future of facial transplantation. Might there one day be a catalog of features from which a prospect could choose? If I had a catalog, I don’t know what features I’d pick. I’d feel like an impostor making any choice at all. I’m not a pixie or a beauty or the girl next door. I’m me. For better or worse, I’m a facial junkyard who stands in dire need of a clean-up.

Isn’t that why I’m on this table?

I force myself to compose a mental list: a year from now, I should be able to leave this place. I could go to New York, where I could walk through Central Park, which must be ten times as big as this island. I could ride around the park in one of the famous horse-drawn carriages. I could go to the Boathouse Café, where Harry met Sally, or stop into Tavern on the Green, where they filmed a scene from
Ghostbusters.
I could splash in Bethesda Fountain, where Mel Gibson lost his son in
Ransom.
I could go to the top of the Empire State Building, where Sam Baldwin met Annie Reed in
Sleepless in Seattle.

I could walk down Fifth Avenue without people staring at me. I could sit in a diner without seeing those quick, surreptitious looks people cast at freaks when they think no one is watching. I don’t get many of those here, but I’ve seen
The Elephant Man.
I know how people treat the odd and ugly.

If I persevere with this, I could have a new life. A
real
life.

I could go to any city on the planet. All the places I’ve read about and seen in movies…I could visit them. I could touch the hot desert sand and feel a cool wind blowing through the redwood forest. I could smell the muddy Mississippi and hear waves crash on the Pacific shore. I could hear Texas twangs and see snow on Alaskan mountaintops.

I could visit my aunt’s house and sleep in her guest bedroom. I could pet Elvis and see if a 200-pound dog is as big as I’ve imagined.

I could walk into CIA headquarters and talk to Jack Traut in his office. I could meet those people gathered around the speakerphone and put faces with their voices. If I learn my lessons well, I could watch their eyes and mouths and eyebrows and understand not only what they’re saying, but what they’re
thinking.

Best of all, I could look at a man…one who will smile and call me
cute
or
beautiful
or
darling.
I’ll know he’s not only saying that because he loves me, but because it’s true—because I’m no longer freakish, ugly, and repulsive.

That alone makes this struggle worth the effort.