Face, The (24 page)

Renee

W
hen Sarah finally arrives in our therapy room, she gestures toward the computer, where a colorful splash screen brightens the monitor. “What’s this?”

“A game,” I say, coming around to stand beside her. “It’s all the rage in the States. People of all ages enjoy it.”

“The Sims? I think I’ve heard of it.”

“Ever played it?”

“Apparently I’m about to.”

Oh, yes, you are.

On the flight to London, I read an article claiming that many little girls were surrendering their Barbie dolls in favor of the Sims. The computer characters were more interactive than dolls, providing a more enriching and imaginative experience.

I hope the article was right.

I fold my arms and smile. “The object is to create characters and keep them happy. They’ll let you know what they need.”

“How?”

“Oh, they talk. They don’t speak English, but you’d be surprised how well they communicate through sound, facial expression, and posture. They also give you pictorial hints whenever the situation becomes especially dire.”

“And what would they consider a dire situation?”

“Being tired, hungry, or lonely. Or desperately needing a toilet or shower.”

Sarah exhales heavily, a clear look of disbelief on her face, but she grabs the mouse, sits, and clicks on the screen.

She must be feeling better.

I step back and try not to hover as Sarah sets up her make-believe family. I’m not surprised when she figures out the mechanics of the game intuitively. The operation of the program shouldn’t give her problems, but I wonder how she’ll handle the social aspect of the Sims.

She names her female character Sarah and giggles. “Sarah Sim. How perfect.”

I laugh. “Isn’t it? I ordered the game especially for you, but I wasn’t thinking about the name. That’s purely a coincidence.”

“I know,” she says, clicking on the next screen. “Believe me, there have been days when I felt more like a simulation than a person.”

She’s reached the screen where the game offers several female faces and body shapes to choose for the female character. Sarah clicks through the options, finally settling on a combination that looks like a curvy storm trooper. I can’t help noticing that the avatar wears a helmet with a face shield; like Sarah, she has no face.

Sarah investigates the male character options more slowly, finally choosing the head of a man with brown hair with gray streaks at the temple. I lift a brow, recognizing the similarity between her character and the newest man in her life. Does she realize that she’s created a Sim who resembles Vincent Kollman? Frankly, I expected her male Sim to look more like Mitch.

She clicks on the Done button. “What next?”

“You buy furnishings for your Sims’ new home. Keep an eye on the budget, and try to purchase things they’ll really need. If they don’t have a bed, for instance, they will complain.”

Her mouth twists in a grimace I’ve begun to interpret as an expression of concentration. Within a few minutes she’s furnished her make-believe home with what she considers essentials: a shower, toilet, sink, desk, bed, and computer.

“Your Sims need beauty, too,” I point out. “A picture on the wall, a potted plant. Something to spruce up their lives a little. If they don’t have it—”

“They’ll complain,” Sarah finishes for me. “Good grief, what’s the fun of playing a game where the characters complain all the time?”

I move to the opposite side of the table and take a seat. “Just give it a try. I think you’ll soon see why the game is so popular.”

I pick up a book and skim the pages while I listen to various sounds coming from the speakers. The roar of a car engine assures me that Sarah has found jobs for her Sims; the noise of doors opening and closing indicates that her Sims have survived their first day. I hear tender Sim voices cooing to each other, then the heavy sighs of disappointment.

“Was that you?” I peer over the top of my book. “Or is someone unhappy in Sim city?”

“How are you supposed to get points in this game?” Sarah is too busy clicking to look up. “How do you win?”

“The game isn’t about winning. It’s about keeping your Sims happy and helping them lead productive lives.”

Sarah makes a faint sound of derision. “Fat chance of that. My girl keeps moping, and there’s a heart in her thought bubble.”

“She wants love.” I soften my voice. “Select the male, then right click and tell him to hug her. Or dance with her, or kiss her. Whatever you think she’d enjoy.”

Sarah gives me a glance that clearly says she thinks I’ve lost my mind. I make a mental note—either her face is becoming more expressive or I’ve grown more adept at reading it. Either way, we’re making progress.

I close my book, content to let Sarah enjoy this virtual taste of the outside world. In fact, I think I’ll let her take the game with her for solo play. She might be more spontaneous if I’m not in the room.

“I’m going for a cup of Shelba’s coffee,” I say, standing. “Would you like some?”

“No.” She doesn’t glance up, but flinches when an outsider, Sim Neighbor, walks up to Sarah’s female and begins to talk in Sim language. “What am I supposed to do with
him?
”

“Right click and smile,” I tell her. “Be friendly. Invite him in for coffee. Turn on the radio.”

“But we don’t have a coffee machine or a radio.”

“That’s the nice thing about Sim world—as long as your Sims are working, you can always stop the game and buy one. But if they get too unhappy to work…that’s when things get difficult.”

With that, I slip out of the room and leave my niece to further her emotional education on her own.

Sarah

I
drop my arms from the keyboard when I hear the door open, then I glance at the clock on the computer. Twelve-thirty? I can’t believe I’ve been dealing with Mr. and Mrs. Whiny Sims for more than
two hours.
Even more unbelievable is the fact that I’ve played through lunch.

“Did Shelba save me a plate?”

“Yes, and Judson wondered where you were.” Aunt Renee’s voice is light as she strides toward me with a tray. “I brought you a sandwich and a bottle of cranberry juice. Thought you might be getting a little hungry and dehydrated up here.”

“Thanks.” I take the juice and twist off the cap, then take a long swallow. “In a minute, I might start making those gestures that mean I need a toilet.”

“Outside, first door on the left,” Aunt Renee quips, dropping a napkin in my lap. “Seriously, if you want to take a break—”

“I’m fine. I just need to stretch.” I pull the napkin from my lap and stand, then walk toward the wide arched windows. At this moment, I’m sorry they blackened the glass on this floor. It would have been nice to see sunshine on a bright day like this.

When I return to the table, Aunt Renee has spread several photographs over the surface. Each picture features a different person, but all of the subjects are smiling.

“They’re happy,” I say, unwrapping the sandwich she’s brought. “Right?”

She folds her arms. “Have a seat. We’re going to have a brief lesson in Smiling 101.”

I drop into my chair. “You mean these people
aren’t
happy?”

“Not exactly. That’s the thing about a smile—sometimes it’s trustworthy, sometimes it’s not. You have to know the subtle signs that indicate the difference.”

I take a bite of my chicken salad sandwich and shrug, but I am interested. These people have all the appropriate parts—nice lips, straight teeth, oval faces. If they can’t manage a genuine smile, who can?

Aunt Renee taps the first photo. “Look at this picture and tell me what you see.”

I swallow. “A man. He’s smiling.”

“How do you know?”

“The corners of his lips curve upward. And I can see his teeth.”

“Right, and that’s a good indicator, but we smile with more than our lips. Examine his eyes—what do you see there?”

I set my sandwich down and peer more closely at the picture. “His eyes seem small. There’s a little bulge beneath his lower lashes. And his brows…they’re kind of low.”

“You have good powers of observation, Sarah. That little bulge and the lowered brow are caused by the tightening of a muscle known as the zygomatic major. When a person is truly happy, the lower eyelid rises, the brows lower, and the corners of the mouth turn up. Now look at this picture.”

She taps another picture of the same man.

“Same man, same smile.” I take another bite of my sandwich. “You havth a duplicath.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” she says, tapping the photo again. “And no, it’s not a duplicate. You’re getting lazy.”

I tighten my mouth and look at the picture again. On closer examination, I can see that the man’s head is tilted in a different direction, and there’s a small shadow on his jacket. His eyes are different, too.

“His eyes.” I swallow and look to Aunt Renee for confirmation. “They’re big and flat now.”

Her eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles. “They are indeed. The man is smiling, but his smile isn’t genuine. Maybe someone told him to smile for the camera, or maybe he’s pretending to be happy about something. But if you look closely, you can see the difference.”

“He’s also not showing as many teeth.”

“Right. You can’t always count on teeth because mouths come in all shapes and sizes, but usually the more teeth displayed, the more enthusiastic the smile.”

She stands and pulls a plastic shopping bag from the examination table against the wall. “This was Dr. Mewton’s idea,” she says, lifting a stack of magazines from the bag. “I’ll bet the newsstand owners got a kick out of seeing Sisters Luke and Shelba buying fashion magazines.”

She spreads them over the table so I can see the glossy covers. Most of them are unfamiliar to me, but one looks familiar.

“I recognize this one.” I tap the cover of
La Hora del Rezo.
“Dr. M buys it all the time.”

Aunt Renee picks up the magazine. “
The Hour of Prayer?
Dr. Mewton buys
this?
”

“Sister Luke does.” I shrug. “I’ve never seen any of the others, but I did learn a few things about magazine publication by watching
13 Going on 30.
”

Aunt Renee smiles, but she’s not showing any teeth.

“I’m not going to be able to read these,” I tell her. “My Spanish isn’t so great.”

“I don’t want you to read them. I want you to go through these magazines and examine smiles. Tag them with these—” she slides a stack of Post-it notes across the shiny surface of a gossip magazine “—and tell me what kind of smiles you see. Are they genuine smiles, insincere smiles, hesitant smiles, reluctant smiles. If you’re not sure, guess. You need to develop your intuition, as well as your powers of observation.”

I set the sticky notes aside and pick up a fashion magazine. “Is that my only assignment?”

“There’s one more.”

When she blinks rapidly, I wonder what
that
expression means.

“I want you to practice smiling in every way you’ve learned. Use the mirror, and do your best.”

I glance at the oval standing at the end of the table. For two days, I’ve done my best to ignore the reflective glass. “What if my results are nothing like the pictures?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not even sure your facial muscles are capable of some of the expressions we’ll be discussing in the days ahead, but for now we’re focusing on smiles.” She drops her hands into her lap. “I thought it might be nice to begin with something easy.”

I flip through the magazine and nod. “Okay, teacher. But I have to go back to work soon. Mr. Traut and the CIA don’t care much about smiling.”

“I know, and that’s a pity. If you have any questions, I’ll be in my room.”

“I’ll be fine.” I open the magazine on the table, pick up my sandwich, and turn the pages as if I’m going to be a good girl and look for pictures while I eat. The moment the door closes behind me, though, I flip to the table of contents and skim through the titles. A headline on the cover caught my eye:
La cara perfecta. The perfect face.

I find the page number and fast forward to the article. The bright pages feature a face with smooth skin, large brown eyes, delicately arched brows, a slender nose, and full, perfectly shaped lips.

The opposite page features photos of assorted beauty
cosméticos.
A block of text follows the pictures, but I don’t bother trying to translate it.

Despite the promises of this article, I know that achieving the perfect face is impossible with cosmetics alone. Someone like me needs professional help to present even a passable face to the world. I don’t want to be breathtakingly gorgeous; I wouldn’t know how to handle perfection.

Still, to have
la cara perfecta…
Some things might be worth dreaming about.

Dinner turns out to be a festive affair. Since Mr. Traut is present, Shelba prepares a feast—onion soup, steamed vegetables, roast duck, and a chocolate soufflé. Aunt Renee, Dr. Kollman, Dr. Mewton, Mr. Traut, and Judson have all been seated by the time I arrive, but they wait until I take my place before picking up their spoons and tasting the soup.

As they eat, I sip from my own bowl and study my companions. Though I’ve spent the entire afternoon grappling with the problem of how to turn brain signals into memories, I can’t help but think of my aunt’s lessons as I look around the table. What are these people saying to me with their faces?

Judson’s face, broad and brown, is the most flexible of the group, continually twisting into a smile, a gape, or an exaggerated grimace. I suspect this is not only part of his personality, but something he does to compensate for his missing eyesight.

My aunt’s face is more delicate, and tends to be still when the others are talking. Yet her eyes frequently flash unspoken messages, which I try my best to decipher. Does her uplifted brow mean surprise or alarm? When her eyes widen, is she pleased? If only one corner of her mouth rises, is she intending a half smile or an expression of doubt? Is the expression intentional or unconscious?

Dr. Kollman’s face seems most at home when nestled against his palm. Except when his hands are occupied with silverware, his napkin, or his glass, he likes to rest his elbow on the table and prop his chin in his hand. His blue eyes are usually soft, and the creases at the corners are deep, as if they’ve existed for years.

Mr. Traut is hard to read. Unless he’s talking, he tends to look at the edges of other people’s plates or study the wall behind their heads. He rarely smiles and he never looks at me. He’s nice to my aunt and friendly with Dr. Mewton, but he maintains a professional distance from everyone else.

I know Dr. Mewton’s face best, but I’ve never studied it analytically. Though she is sixty-one years old, her skin is remarkably unlined. She wears her gray hair as short as a soldier’s. Her teeth are perfectly white and perfectly spaced; her blue eyes can prick and deflate a lie even from across the room.

Dr. Mewton guards her face, I think. I study her as she watches the conversational exchanges between Dr. Kollman and Aunt Renee. Whenever one of them looks at her, Dr. Mewton smiles, but the zygomatic major, my aunt would say, is not tensing, so those smiles are insincere. But I do not believe them malicious, for Dr. Mewton is always polite to our guests.

My gaze drifts back to Dr. Kollman’s face as I ponder what I’ve learned over this dinner’s first course. An insincere smile, then, could be a good thing.

It is here, in this unexplored territory, that I realize how I can make Gutenberg more reliable as a truth detector. By connecting the computer to a camera, I can train the program to identify the key facial movements and micro expressions that signify deception, embellishment, and mood alteration. The research already exists; scientists have been hard at work on programs to help people with Asperger’s syndrome and other types of autism. Aunt Renee will know how to help me access it.

“Oh, my.” I drop my spoon and look at Mr. Traut, who looks at me and then turns away.

I switch my gaze to Dr. M. “I know how to do it. Gutenberg needs a camera.”

Dr. Mewton lifts her upper lip and makes the quick
tsssst
sound that means I’ve said too much to the wrong people.

But that’s okay. The best-attended dinner of my life has also been the most productive.

Maybe even the most enjoyable.

I’m pushing in my chair when Shelba stops to clear away my dessert plate. “Miss Sarah, a word?”

“Sure.”

She casts a quick glance at the departing diners as she bends to pick up another set of dishes. “What I hear—is it true?”

I lean on the back of my chair. “What have you heard?”

“I hear you’re leaving us.” She sets the dirty dishes on her cart and looks at me without even the hint of a smile. “Things wouldn’t be the same around here if you left us.”

“I’m not going anywhere for a long time.” I watch the others as they file through the doorway—especially Judson and Dr. Mewton. “Who told you I was leaving?”

She bends to reach for Mr. Traut’s coffee cup. “It’s not a secret, is it?”

“I suppose not.”

“Then Dr. Mewton told me. She would hate to see you go.”

I cling to the back of my chair and wonder what Aunt Renee would do in this moment. She would probably touch Shelba in some way, maybe pat her back or squeeze her arm. I lift my hand, then grip the chair again. “Shelba, would you be happy if you had to spend all your time here at the convent?”

She straightens, the creamer in her hand. “
All
the time?”

“What if you were never allowed to go ashore to shop, pick up a newspaper, or visit your family on vacation. How would you feel about that?”

I watch as her face flutters with tiny movements. “I—I wouldn’t like it one bit. Those trips…they keep me sane.”

“Then you understand. If the doctor can fix my face, I want to be able to leave this place. I’m not planning to abandon my work, but I’d like to have options.”

She draws a deep breath and bends to retrieve the centerpiece from the table. “All the same, I will miss you when you’re gone.”

“I’ll miss you, too.”

I slip past her and exit the dining room, but a question follows me out the door: is Dr. Mewton so intent on keeping me here that she’d enlist Shelba to talk me out of having the transplant?

After dinner, Judson catches me in the hallway and asks me to ride upstairs with him. Once we’re safely inside the elevator I cross my arms and turn. “What’s up?”