The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty (30 page)

“No,” I say, shaking my head. I don’t want my mom’s dream vacation in Australia to be ruined by news of my condition. She’d be so distraught, she’d either cut her trip short or at the very least she wouldn’t be able to enjoy the rest of it, and I can’t bear either option.

“But . . . are any of my friends here?” I ask.

To my relief they are. The doctor lets them in. Georgia rushes to me, looking extremely anxious. Jack and Peter follow. They all look traumatized. Peter holds my hand.

As for Penelope, she’s not here. When the doctor leaves and my friends and I are alone, they tell me Penelope is home, trying to piece Lily back together, like she would one of her ugly broken pots. They say she stopped by the hospital earlier and got all the remaining pieces from Peter.

Georgia adds, in an urgent, secretive tone, “Everyone was asking how you got a hundred shards of mirror stuck in you. I had to make up a story. We said you had a large mirror sculpture that you accidentally knocked over and fell on top of as it shattered.”

I nod, filled with gloom as I’m visualizing what really happened. After a moment, I ask, “What happened to Lily? What was that?”

Georgia looks at Jack and Peter. Then she replies, “Death by sorrow, we assume. I think the sad music she played each time she felt depressed created a vicious circle she couldn’t get out of. Her mood made the music sadder, which in turn made her mood sadder. It’s as if her mood and her music became entwined in a dance of despair, reinforcing each other, creating a downward spiral that pulled Lily under.”

My throat is clenched so tight I can hardly breathe.

Peter is at my other side. He’s caressing my cheek, smiling at me lovingly, wanting me to turn away from Georgia.

The doctors were hoping to let me go home later, but it turns out not to be possible because the transfusion doesn’t agree with me. I develop a fever, which I’m told is a febrile non-hemolytic transfusion reaction. They say it’s common and won’t cause any lasting problems.

The fever goes away by the end of the day, and I’m allowed to leave at four the following afternoon.

PETER, GEORGIA, AND
Jack are here to escort me out. We move down the hospital corridor like a funeral procession, our heads bowed, thinking of Lily.

Our plan is to go directly to Penelope’s apartment because I want to see Lily’s remains.

Before we’ve even left my hospital floor, I’m being stared at by doctors, nurses, and visitors. They stare at me as we wait for the elevator, then in the elevator, then in the lobby. Not being disguised is even worse than I remembered. And they don’t just stare. Some of them whisper to each other while staring. I can’t wait to get out of here.

Georgia decides we should sit in the coffee shop in the lobby for tea and a snack, which annoys me because she knows I want to see Lily’s pieces right away, and I’m the one who’s injured. But Jack’s on her side and Peter’s neutral, so we go in and get a table.

I refuse all food and drink. While my friends are getting their snacks at the self-service counter, people keep staring at me. It’s excruciating. I’m getting agitated, and the stress is causing me to feel my cuts more acutely, as though these strangers’ eyes are cutting into me. I won’t be able to take this on a daily basis, especially now that Lily is dead from all this crap.

My friends return to the table, unwrapping their snacks and stirring their teas.

“I won’t be able to live like this,” I state flatly. “I’ll have to put my disguise back on. Or attack people looking my way.”

“Don’t worry, today it’s not normal staring,” Georgia says. “I’m really sorry, but my stupid publicist secretly used her phone to film you while we were stripping you at the party. You’re on most newspapers’ front pages today. They’ve published some photos of you wearing your hideous getup next to some photos of you in all your natural splendor. They seem fascinated by the contrast, and they used headlines like ‘Strip or Die’ and ‘Stripping For Your Life’ and ‘Psycho Doorman Blinded By Beauty.’ You’re being referred to as ‘The Woman Who Was Stripped of Her Ugliness to Save Her Life.’ The video of your stripping has been online since yesterday morning. They keep showing it on TV, too.”

After several seconds of shocked silence, I say, “That sucks. Why didn’t you tell me right away?”

“We were afraid you wouldn’t leave your hospital room if you knew.”

“So you figured you’d prolong my suffering by making me sit here to be gawked at by everyone? Did you want to torture me?’

“No, we wanted to prepare you. The paparazzi are outside, waiting for you to come out. They’re being kept out by security. We couldn’t let you walk out without warning you, right?”

“Right,” I mutter.

“Don’t worry,” Georgia says, “the crazy staring will pass. Until then, it’ll be rough because people are going berserk over this story. They find your story inspiring, for some reason. There’s even imitation going on. I heard on the news that earlier today there was a fashion show in which male models pounced on female models on the runway and stripped them of their dowdy, unflattering clothes, to reveal their chic couture outfits underneath.”

“It’s true,” Peter says. “And a wedding took place today in which the bride walked down the aisle wearing a big ugly sack or tent and a bunch of her friends stripped her, uncovering her beautiful wedding gown.”

Jack says, “A buddy of mine was at a strip club last night and said some of the strippers were doing it, too, taking off big hideous outfits to reveal their sexy little selves underneath.”

“You see what I mean?” Georgia says to me. “But mostly the media wants to know why such a beauty as yourself would hide her looks for years. That’s what they want to ask you.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say.

“That’s fine. You can leave it up to the men.”

“What men?”

“The men you did your ritual on, at bars. They’re coming out of the woodwork, offering their theories, their gibberish, not always flattering to you, by the way—obviously, because their pride was wounded. They describe how you misrepresented yourself. One guy said it’s as bad as dishonesty the other way around, like when he meets women online who pretend they’re better-looking than they are by showing him photos of themselves younger, thinner, or photos of other women.”

Clearly, I can never put my disguise back on. Too many people would know it’s just a disguise. And it would excite them. And their excitement would make my life more miserable than simply enduring my appearance.

“Do we want to get out of this hospital the straightforward way or do we want to sneak out?” Georgia asks.

“Sneak out, obviously,” I say.

“I think it would be a mistake.”

“Why?”

“If you’re elusive they’ll never leave you alone. If you’re accessible they’ll get bored faster.”

“Okay, the straightforward way, then,” I say.

I’m holding on to Peter’s arm as we exit the hospital through the main entrance. Georgia wasn’t kidding. There are TV news crews and a throng of photographers shoving one another, shouting things at me, like—

“Barb, show us your cuts! Your stitches!”

“Do you hate men, Barb?”

“Why didn’t you go into modeling or acting? You could have made a fortune!”

“Barb, you’re gorgeous!”

“Smile, Barb! Show us your teeth!”

“Got anything to say to TMZ?”

I fight my urge to turn away or run. It’s challenging, because I feel as though I’m in a pool of sharks. And yet that’s exactly what one’s supposed to do in a pool of sharks: move calmly, don’t panic, don’t go berserk trying to escape.

Despite my efforts to remain accessible per Georgia’s advice—at least visually if not verbally—their excitement is growing. They seem energized by my lack of resistance.

Trying to control the edge of hysteria in my voice, I say in Georgia’s ear, “They’re not getting bored like you said.”

A paparazzo shouts, “She spoke! What did she say? Barb, say that again, we didn’t hear you!”

Georgia’s face reaches up to my ear and replies: “Yes, they are. This is them, bored. If you had fled, you would have seen true madness.”

Peter’s driver is double parked, waiting for us. As we’re about to get in the car, several of the paparazzi behind me shout, “Over your shoulder, Barb!” I look behind me to see what they’re talking about. They just wanted to get another shot.

We’re followed by a few news vehicles.

When we arrive at Penelope’s building, we hurry inside.

In her apartment, we stand around Lily’s feet, which Penelope has succeeded in putting back together. On the coffee table is a portion of her face, which Penelope has also put back together like a separate piece of a puzzle. It’s heart-wrenching. Every part of Lily has retained its horrible mirror-like reflectiveness. Next to the excerpt of her face is her reassembled hand, and part of her other one. Penelope says the extremities are the easiest, whereas the larger, less detailed planes such as the thighs and back will be more difficult—like sections of clear blue skies, or virgin snow, in puzzles.

I give Penelope a hug and a kiss of gratitude for her touching but pointless efforts to put Lily back together.

After our visit, Peter takes me to my apartment. He helps me get into bed. He lies next to me, dressed. I cry and he caresses my face. It all seems so inevitable. Lily, dead of sadness, me, here, loved for a worthless reason by an otherwise wonderful man. It’s all so predetermined and inescapable.

AT NINE THE
next morning, the ringing of my cell phone wakes me. I don’t usually sleep this late, but my injuries have exhausted me and I took some painkillers in the middle of the night.

I answer my phone. It’s my mom, calling from Australia, sounding excited.

The first thing out of her mouth is: “That video is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen! I was at a bar a few hours ago and saw you on the TV getting stripped! I’ve been partying ever since, waiting until it was late enough to call you. I want to thank your crazy doorman. I’m sorry you got injured by all those pieces of glass, but sweetie, it was
worth
it!”

“I needed a four-hour transfusion. If I’d been wearing my disguise, I would have been protected from those shards and I wouldn’t have lost 40 percent of my blood.”

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. But I still think it was worth it.”

Hurt, I say, “If it hadn’t been for my disguise and the chance it gave me to hide by taking it off, I probably would be dead, shot by the doorman.”

“If it hadn’t been for your disguise, perhaps he wouldn’t have wanted to shoot you in the first place.”

“You don’t understand my doorman. He wanted to kill me because of my personality, not because of how I looked. I was too calm for his taste. He hated me for never getting offended by his insults. He found it belittling. His desire to kill me had nothing to do with my appearance.”

“So you think.”

I huff. “I’ll have some scars on my body,” I say, thinking at least she’ll care about that, since it has to do with beauty.

“Who cares! Bodily scars are nothing compared to how hideous you looked. I hope you’re
never
going to put back on that disgusting fat. I have my beautiful daughter back!” she screams.

Not wanting her vacation shortened on my account, I talk her out of jumping on the next plane to care for me. I tell her my friends have been helping me plenty.

AND THEY HAVE
been, especially Peter, who is devoted to me. During the next few days, he stays with me, nurses me. He leaves me only to go to the station to anchor the news and comes right back to take care of me. He is endlessly attentive and affectionate. I tell all my clients that I need extra time to complete the various projects I’m working on. Everyone is, of course, very accommodating.

I can tell by the way Peter looks at me that he’s affected by my real appearance. I’ve noticed this every day since he ripped off my disguise. Yet, he makes no pass at me, which is just as well because if he did, I know I would rebuff him. Despite my attraction to him, I would reject him because I refuse to let beauty win. Especially now that Lily has been destroyed by it.

When I go out, people’s stares get on my nerves.

I screen my calls. I ignore the many messages I get every day from journalists asking me to grant them interviews and to explain why for years I squashed my beauty under a load of hideousness and why I did my bar ritual.

Why should I grant interviews? Only to become even more recognized, even more stared at? I wouldn’t have minded explaining myself, or expressing my harsh opinion of beauty, but the cost is too great.

Plus, Georgia does something much more powerful to further my cause against beauty worship. She turns Lily into a legend. She doesn’t mean to. She means only to honor Lily’s memory by writing an in-depth article for the
New York Times
about her life.

Surprisingly, at the bottom of the article, in a separate section entitled “What Happened to Lily?” Georgia doesn’t shy away from describing Lily’s end—the true version. Given its supernatural nature, everyone takes this finale to be an imaginative and metaphorical account of Lily’s breakdown and alarming disappearance. They believe Lily got depressed and “fell to pieces” after her breakup with Strad. They believe the split “shattered” her and that then she decided to vanish, leave town. For a while or maybe forever.

Correcting this misconception would be unwise of us, we feel, particularly as her parents have already recruited the police’s help in trying to locate her, and any insistence on our parts that Lily broke to pieces literally, not metaphorically, will only make us seem like lunatics, deserving of being more thoroughly investigated in connection with her disappearance—an investigation we would not welcome for fear it might uncover the fact that there does happen to be, coincidentally, a killer among us.

But that’s not the only reason we don’t want people to know Lily is in real pieces. We’re afraid Penelope will go insane if those pieces are taken from her. She’s already demented, spending her entire days trying to put Lily back together.