Face, The (26 page)

Sarah

F
or the next two weeks, I spend far more time in the past and future than in the present. I’ve begun to fill a notebook with recollections I want to create and store in my memory. When I’m not dreaming up new memories, I have been enthusiastically applying myself to Aunt Renee’s lessons—studying photos, watching faces, and sitting in front of that nasty oval mirror while trying to imitate Dr. Kollman’s uplifted brow and Dr. Mewton’s curled upper lip. I am determined to face the future well equipped.

Though Aunt Renee does not agree with my decision to adopt a new past, she does not criticize me during our sessions. Still, there are times when I catch her looking at me in unguarded moments, and now I am better able to read the shadow in her eyes, the sadness in her smile.

She would change my mind if she could.

“It’s strange,” I tell Judson one afternoon. “Dr. Mewton is against the face transplant but she supports my plan to implant new memories. Aunt Renee is in favor of the transplant and opposed to the memory transfer. They disagree about almost everything.”

“And yet they manage to avoid coming to blows,” Judson quips. “Admirable women, both of them.”

I leave him in the hallway and jog up the stairs to the third floor. Dr. Kollman didn’t come down for lunch, and I want to be sure he’s feeling okay.

As I turn at the third floor landing, I slow my step and consider my approach. I know he is much older than I, but we have spent time together nearly every day. He has measured my face “inside and out,” as he likes to joke, and sometimes I think he knows me inside and out. We laugh and talk at breakfast every morning. Judson and Aunt Renee eventually join us in the dining room, but Dr. Kollman and I are nearly always the first at the table.

I’m not sure I understand why my heart has begun to thump every time his gaze meets mine, but lately I’ve been drawn to him like a butterfly to a flower. Though I used to get nervous every time Mitch came into view, Mitch never asked about my favorite poet or recited lines from
Moonstruck
as he took my blood pressure.

After Dr. Kollman told me “Snap out of it!” was his favorite line in any movie, I hurried downstairs and ran into the garden, so filled up with feeling that I thought I might burst. I had to do something—run, jump, dance, or turn cartwheels—so I stepped onto the flattened grass covering a grave and then hopped to the next on one foot. I had never played hopscotch, but suddenly I
had
to. I owed myself this opportunity to hop in a flood of happiness.

So I bent one leg, held my foot behind my back, and jumped from grave to grave, laughing myself silly. If Aunt Renee or Dr. Mewton had glanced out a window, they would have thought me crazy, but I didn’t care. I hopped the entire width of the graveyard and collapsed next to the wall in a gale of giggles.

What is it about Dr. Kollman that makes me happy? I don’t know. Why does his smile make me feel warm inside? I don’t care. Let Dr. Mewton call me silly or stupid or even insane. It doesn’t matter.

What I felt for Mitch, I’ve decided, was a silly crush. What I feel for Dr. Kollman…must be love.

At the top of the stairs I draw a deep breath, smooth the wrinkles out of my cotton shirt, and knock on his door. From within, I hear a deep greeting that increases my pulse rate.

I open the door and step into the room. The doctor is seated at his desk, but he smiles—with teeth showing—when he sees me. “Sarah!” He stands, a polite gesture I never see in modern movies. “Can I help you with something, or are you playing hooky from work?”

I shrug and lock my hands behind my back. “I wanted to stretch my legs, so I thought I’d come up to see you. Do you mind?”

“Mind? I’d find your company a welcome diversion. Please, pull up a chair.”

I pull up one of the chairs next to the desk and sit down, grateful that he’s not going to put his medical journal aside on my account. I like to watch him work. “What are you reading?”

“Preparatory materials.”

“Preparatory for what?”

“For you.” He pushes his reading glasses back to his nose and runs his finger over a column. “I’ve been lining up the team we’ll need when we do your transplant. The operation will require specialists in two operating theaters—one here, of course, and one in the city where your donor is located.”

“Why can’t they bring the donor here?”

“Too much time, too many permissions required. The donor face will be degloved and shipped in a cooler, but don’t worry, it will last up to eight hours. While it’s en route, we’ll prepare you—” He hesitates, his eyes searching my face. “Does discussing this bother you at all?”

I wave my hand, dismissing his concern. “Are you kidding? I’m the queen of surgical procedures.”

“All right, then. I’ll make a long description short and say that we’ll remove your damaged tissue, then reattach your clamped blood vessels and nerves to the donor face. It’s complicated microsurgery, but I’m confident our team will be able to handle it.”

“Nothing but the best for America’s team.”

“Something like that.” H abruptly closes his periodical. “Can I get you something? Water? A soft drink?”

“No, thank you. I’m fine.” A brittle silence falls between us, and I look up, wondering what has changed. I study his face, but he has lowered his gaze and seems reluctant to meet my eyes.

Has talking about the transplant reminded him of how repulsive I am? Did I say something to embarrass him? Or…could he be feeling some of the same emotions I am?

“Dr. Kollman—”

“Sarah, I—”

“Please. Can I tell you something?”

Before I can explain the emotions that have been battering my heart, someone raps on the door.

Aunt Renee’s face appears in the opening. “Hi, you two,” she says, her voice as sunny as her smile. “Am I interrupting something?”

Dr. Kollman lifts a brow at me—his shorthand for a question—but I’m not about to spill
this
secret in front of Aunt Renee.

“Not a thing.” I pull myself out of the chair. “And I’d better get to work.”

And as I leave the room, I hear him greet her, and a note in his voice that wasn’t there a moment ago…or was it? Love is so confusing.

I don’t want to be hurt. I don’t want to love anyone who doesn’t love me back. But once you open your heart to someone, how can you stop feeling?

Only three of us show up for dinner that night—Dr. Kollman, Aunt Renee, and me. Judson comes down late, and when I lean over to ask him what’s up, he gives me a terse response: “Espinosa is stalling. And Mewton’s not happy.”

When Shelba comes in to clear the table, we stand and compliment her on a delicious dinner. She thanks me when I stay behind to help her stack dishes on her cart.

I hand her the set of salt and pepper shakers. “Is Dr. Mewton eating?”

Shelba shakes her head. “The doctor is on an urgent call and cannot be disturbed. She may come down later for a bite, but who can say? The woman works too hard.”

As Shelba pushes her cart toward the kitchen, I linger at the bottom of the stairwell and wonder what I should do with my evening. I could go upstairs and get in a couple of hours of work, I could go to the therapy room and stare at pictures of facial expressions, or I could roam around down here and hope to bump into Dr. Kollman, who has not yet gone upstairs. I’m not sure where he is, but if I wander in the right passageway…

I stroll through the hallway and try to imagine the building as it was a hundred years ago. Fewer than thirty or forty nuns worked and ate in these rooms, living on charity while they passed their lives in prayer and meditation. They spent hours on their knees, developing thick calluses, no doubt, while they waited for a word from God.

These walls have witnessed a lot of waiting.

I pass my aunt’s room and then glance into the chapel. The sight of Dr. Kollman’s figure in a pew catches me by surprise. I didn’t know he was a religious man. Has he been coming here every night?

I creep into the chapel and slide into the pew behind him. He is sitting quietly, his head bowed. After a little while, he turns and glances toward the door.

And sees me.

“Sarah.” His voice is both powerful and gentle. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

“Surprise.”

He gestures toward the altar. “I find this one of the most peaceful rooms in the facility. Coming here helps me focus my thoughts.”

“On your work?”

“On everything.”

I look up at the face of Jesus while I weigh his words. This may be the opportunity for which I’ve been waiting. Like Scarlett in
Gone with the Wind,
sometimes a woman has to gather her courage and say what’s on her mind.

“Dr. Kollman, I need to tell you something.”

He shifts on the pew to better see me. “Having second thoughts about the surgery?”

“No—if anything, I’m even more determined to go through with it. But during these last few weeks, I’ve…I’ve begun to feel things I’ve never felt before.”

He tilts his head. “Your aunt told me this would happen. I was surprised by the data, but apparently there’s a real physiological connection between facial expression and corresponding emotion. You’ve been concentrating on creating expressions, so it’s only natural that you should begin to experience a corresponding increase in emotion.” His face creases in a smile. “I hope the emotions have been pleasant.”

“They have…mostly. Sometimes a bit unpredictable, though.”

“That’s what emotions are…unpredictable. The trick is learning how to keep a rein on them.”

“Even love?”

He lifts a brow and takes a wincing little breath. “Love? Some would say it’s more an action than an emotion. Love is what we do, not necessarily what we feel.”

“But I do feel it…for you.”

The doctor blinks, his strong mouth opens in a look I’ve learned to recognize as honest surprise.

His look fills me with a painful feeling of emptiness. Something rushes up from the pit of my stomach, sucking the air from my lungs, from the room, from the world.

I cling to the seat of the pew as the room begins to spin.

“Sarah…while I appreciate the compliment—”

“You don’t love me.”

“I didn’t say that. I am fond of you, quite fond. And I’m honored you should feel…anything for me. But really, I think your feelings are probably more like those of a daughter for a father.”

He can’t look me in the eye, but seems intent on delivering his speech to a spot beside me on the pew. “I suggest—” he clears his throat “—that you talk to your aunt about these emotions. She will help you understand them, sort through them.”

I lower my gaze and try to swallow the lump that has risen in my throat. Ten minutes ago I was facing the future with hope, not resignation. Now my mouth fills with the bitter taste of ashes—the ashes of my dreams.

What good is a new face if the man I love knows what a fake I am? He can’t love me because he knows I am a misshapen monster. Even if I look like Miss America by this time next year, he will never be able to forget what I truly am.

I stand, keeping my head lowered. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.”

“I’m not embarrassed. I’m honored, really.”

Sure you are.

I nod a brief farewell and walk toward the door, blinking back tears as an odd line—is it from an old movie?—comes to mind:
Beauty may be only skin-deep, but ugly goes clear to the bone.

Renee

I
am waiting outside Sarah’s door when she comes up the stairs. She seems surprised to see me, so I flash the DVD case in my hand: “It’s a classic—one I know you’ll like.
Sunset Boulevard.
”

She glances uneasily at Judson’s door, and she does not look happy.

“Did you have plans?” I ask, ready to retreat. “I only came up because it’s Friday night, and nobody likes to sit home on Friday night. I thought it might be fun to watch a movie, maybe see if Shelba can scrounge up some popcorn.”

“Popcorn?”

“Or hot dogs.”

“But we just had dinner.”

I laugh. “That’s not the point. The point is to stuff yourself with junk food while you watch the film. If the movie’s good enough, you won’t even notice the resulting tummy ache.”

Sarah draws a deep breath and opens her door. “Come on in.”

As she takes the DVD and sets it up on her computer, I glance around her room. Nothing has changed since the last time I was in here, but maybe she’s finding new meaning in the faces on the movie posters on her walls.

One can only hope.

We start the movie and climb up on the bed, bracing our backs against the wall and surrounding ourselves with pillows. Joe Gillis has just parked his car in Norma Desmond’s garage when Shelba knocks and brings in two buckets of popcorn, complete with dripping butter and napkins.

I thank her with a smile and invite her to stay for the movie.

“No, thank you,” she says, waving us off. “I have bread in the oven.”

Joe is watching Norma bury the dead monkey when Judson sticks his head into the room. “Do I smell popcorn?”

I wave the bowl in his direction. “Want some?”

“Naw.” He shakes his head. “But boy, does that bring back memories.”

“You’re welcome to watch with us,” Sarah says. “This film’s at least as old as you are, so I’m sure you’ve seen it before.”

“You’re a heartless thing,” Judson answers, rolling backward. “Keep your popcorn and your ancient movie. I’m going to bed.”

Soon Sarah and I are alone again. I’ve seen the movie several times, so I watch my niece as much as I watch William Holden and Gloria Swanson. I ordered the film because I wanted Sarah to see the power of an expressive face…and because I assumed she liked it.

“Look.” I point to Ms. Swanson, who’s in full-on diva mode. “See how her eyeliner exaggerates the width of her eyes? She’s playing a silent film actress, who would have had to exaggerate every gesture and expression. Contemporary actors don’t do that because dialog helps carry the emotion. But by watching Ms. Swanson, you can see exaggerated emotional tells.”

“They didn’t need words,” Sarah says, “because they had faces. Isn’t that what Norma says?”

“You’ve seen this one before.”

“About a dozen times. But it never grows old.”

She falls silent and takes another handful of popcorn, leaving me to speculate on why she likes the movie so much.

Does the theme of communication resonate with her, or does she relate to the doomed loves of Norma and Joe, or Joe and Betty Schaefer?

“Do you think,” she asks, “that Joe loves Norma?”

I glance at her, surprised by the question. “Do
you
think he loves her?”

“He sleeps with her, doesn’t he? He laughs with her, takes her money, comes when she calls.”

“He feels something for her,” I admit, “but I’m not sure it’s love. More like concern, maybe. Or responsibility.”

“But Norma loves him.”

“Maybe. I think Norma
needs
him. She needs someone to adore her, and Joe happened along at the right time.”

Sarah remains silent, except for an occasional sigh. Her eyes, when I glance at them, are wide and unfocused, as if she’s thinking of something else.

I point to the screen. “There…what expression do you see on Joe’s face?”

Sarah’s lashless eyelids blink at the screen. “Anger—but he’s not furious. Temper, maybe.”

“Look at his hands.”

“They’re clenched. Okay, so maybe that’s frustration?”

“I think so. He wants to leave Norma and go with Betty, but he feels trapped. Norma depends on him, and she’s already proven that she’ll hurt herself if he tries to leave. So even though Betty’s waiting—”

“He can’t go.”

I reach over and squeeze her hand. “You’re getting good at this.”

“Well—” her head tilts in what might be an attempt at a winsome expression “—I do work for CIA. We’re supposed to be good at what we do. Someday I’ll use all this in the field.”

I exhale a quiet sigh. So…she has begun to think seriously about leaving this place.

I follow up on her thought. “When you’re in the field, you’re going to depend on your ability to read facial expressions. I think you’re going to be exceptionally good at it. You’ve had to work at what other people take for granted.”

She grabs another handful of popcorn. “I don’t think I’m so good at it. Lately I’ve been feeling like I’ve lived my entire life in a place where people are speaking a foreign language. I picked up a few words, but I missed a lot more than I picked up. With what you’ve been teaching me, I’m beginning to understand the language I missed.”

She might have said more, but the cell phone on her desk rings. Grimacing at her butter-coated fingers, she gingerly pulls her phone out of its cradle. “Yes?”

I can hear Dr. Mewton’s voice from where I’m sitting.

“I’ll be right up.”

She snaps the phone shut. “Sorry, but Dr. M needs me.”

“Urgent meeting?”

Sarah wipes her fingers on a napkin. “It’s—”

“I know, it’s classified.”

“You know, you’re getting pretty good at this.” Leaving me with that, she saunters out of the room.