FaceMate

by Steven M. Greenberg

  “It didn’t upset him, Aley. He wasn’t upset when he saw the picture, he was shocked. You know the story of what happened to his girlfriend Lizzie, don’t you? I told you that. So when he saw that picture, as exact as the Russian girl is to the girl who died, you can see why he was shocked. And then with the heart problem—Well, it couldn’t have been avoided. Sooner or later, he was going to find out about that Liliana, and what happened was going to happen whether you said something or not. It just happened a little earlier—which may turn out for the better: At least he can get some treatment now.”

  “What if he dies, though. Rajiv? If he dies, I’ll be the one who killed him. Oh God, Rajiv, I wish it was me in the hospital instead of him. I wish it was me with the heart problem and not Ben.”

  “Don’t say that, Aley. Don’t beat yourself up anymore about what happened. Ben’ll be alright. Hey, they’re taking him to the best place in the country to be treated. Eddie’s got it all arranged. Look, we’ve got a purpose now, remember? Think of what Ben would want us to do if he wasn’t there to do it himself, OK? This Tommy guy is his legacy. Let’s do whatever we can with our billions for him.”

  Funny how there wasn’t any pain. You would have expected it, wouldn’t you? Expected something anyway: heaviness, maybe; pressure; a little tightness in the chest—But no: No discomfort of any kind, really, just that sudden lightheadedness and the feeling that you couldn’t quite catch your breath—Then lights out. Yes but … not completely out, for there was the feeling of, well, not falling exactly, but rather floating like a feather down, down, blissfully toward whatever place you were going to sink to in the end…. And the next thing Ben remembered, he was lying on the floor.

  And then the fog lifted a little bit…. And there was Tommy—damn kid, no matter what went wrong with anything, he knew how to fix it—What a guy! “Here, get his feet up and his head down as low as it’ll go.” Those words came at him dreamily through the fog. All the other people up above him, scattering the light, were jumping back and forth aimlessly looking for something purposeful to do, it seemed. Not finding it, however, while meantime the kid was taking care of everything himself. Up went the legs, down on the floor went the head, until Tommy folded up his sport coat to slip underneath. Which felt a whole lot better than the flooring did—cheap wood, rubber tiling, linoleum squares—He hadn’t really noticed what was down there, but whatever the hell it was, without that sport coat as a pillow, it sure as hell felt hard!

  Everything was smothered in that pea-soup haze for quite a little while—it could have been a minute, it could have been an hour; who could tell?—the ceiling lights spinning round and round, then up and down and sideways; the eyes peering down at him like muffled searchlights in a fog….

  Until the ambulance people got there—anybody’s guess as to how long they took to find the building and get their equipment up to Four. Then one look at them and their white coats and their stethoscopes—Whoa! that sure shocked a fellow into real-time consciousness—and fast!

  “Hey, what the hell…? Who are these…? What are you doing with my shirt there, huh?—Hey, look: All that happened is, I got a little dizzy is all, and….”

  He remembered saying that; and, having said it, he started to remember when he got a little dizzy. Which got him to remembering why he got a little dizzy. Which got him to remembering a picture on a screen, and when that picture popped back into his head—Zing!—There it was again, the funny feeling in his heart and the tiny little pang, and the breathlessness. But his head was low this time, flat on Tommy’s sport-coat on the floor; and his feet were high, propped up on a chair; so he didn’t pass out completely like the last time quite a while ago. No, instead of passing out completely, his mind stayed conscious all the while, permitting him to experience the funny feeling in his heart and the breathlessness (and the tiny little pang right in the breastbone, barely noticeable)—And he remembered vividly—too goddamn vividly for comfort, truthfully—that mesmerizing image on the screen.

  “I want to see it.” That’s what he’d told Eddie, when he heard that Alex’s computer had found a picture, yelling that at poor, good-natured, frantic Eddie in the most authoritative voice he had ever told Eddie anything demanding in.

  So Eddie had climbed around to the other side of Rajiv’s desk, and sat down at the computer and opened up his email. Six weeks ago, or eight—he wasn’t sure until he found it, and opened it, and Ben saw Ed’s face get that funny kind of look, and stepped around the desk himself and glanced down at the screen:

  And there it was, all gold and cream and beautiful: And you know what? Damned if it wasn’t her—Damned if it wasn’t Lizzie! Definitely Lizzie, no mistaking that face—which was one of a kind: Make it, take one disbelieving look at it, then throw the fucking mold away. Not like Lizzie, no. Not some pretty girl with a striking resemblance to Lizzie. But her—HER! The eyes, the look in those eyes, the set of that mouth, that minute, immeasurable tilting of the neck to one side so you could always see the helix of her ear when you snapped a shot. It was her—it was HER! Only someone as intimately familiar with the real thing as Ben was, could tell if some sham copy posing as genuine was genuine in truth. And this person in the photograph was genuine, alright. It was Lizzie—his Lizzie—beyond the faintest, flimsiest shadow of a doubt!

  “I want to see her,” he’d said, in as forceful a voice as he could summon under the circumstances. And two seconds afterward, damn it, but the lights just plain went out.

  They took him in an ambulance. Hell, he didn’t want to go anywhere in an ambulance, too much fuss with all the sirens and the speed. But there are procedures to be followed, when they find you lying on the floor: Forms to be completed, questions you must answer, regulations it is imperative that you obey. Once you’re a helpless captive of those deputies in white, those entry-level members of the medical-industrial complex, you’re in for the long haul, down on the canvas for the count.

  First stop, the emergency room on a stretcher, where the blood gets drawn, the leads get fastened to your chest, the initial, interrogatory X-rays, probings, pokings, soundings, as many billable procedures as they can think of, just as long as the fees are likely to be paid. Nobody had better health insurance then Ben, so nobody got more procedures ordered and done—that was the norm for his periodic physicals. But this time he got smart: he fessed up before they went too far:

  “I had that test already.”

  “What? An echocardiogram, you’re saying? You had one done—Recently?”

  She was young, Asian-American, like Rajiv, but not Indian. A Filipina, probably. The name on her nametag was Spanish, but her very pretty face was Polynesian, with a dash of Lopez or Mendoza tossed into the eclectic mix. American-born, though, this Marina Andralon: If she had an accent, it was USA mid-western: slightly flattened vowels, but not as flat as a Chicagoan—So probably raised right here in Ohio. Intelligent coal-black eyes; Ben guessed she was competent enough and ethical enough not to put him through the ringer just to make the ER an extra couple bucks.

  “The echo? I don’t know—a week; less than a week now, maybe three, four days. That qualify as recent?—So; you’re Philippine, I’m guessing—Chicken adobo and calamares en su tinto—right??”

  “My folks eat that kind of nonsense, sir, but for me, it’s Big Macs and KFC. I was born and raised right here in Columbus, Mr. Atherton.”

  “Sounds familiar; do you know a fellow named Rajiv? Maybe you might have met him at the KFC.”

  “I don’t think so, sir. Rajiv? No, I don’t think so—Umm, but the echocardiogram—What did it show? Did they tell you the results?”

  “Probably what you’re looking for, Doc. Didn’t you talk to young Dr. Mulroy yet—the nice-looking kid in the waiting area? Five-ten or so; sandy hair?”

  “Is he a doctor? He didn’t mention that he was.”

  “He will be a doctor. Right now, he’s the next best thing. But the real doctor—You want to know who did the echo, right? His name i
s Harvey Axelrod, and his office is in Red Bank, New Jersey. I’ll need to sign a records release for you, though. Otherwise he’s sworn to silence, and he won’t divulge a thing. I told him I’d have his knees shot out if he spilled the beans.”

  He signed the form, and she scurried off to get the records sent, but before she did, she pulled the curtain open that had separated him from the rest of Columbus and its populace; and no sooner did she pull it open, than there were Tommy and Eddie, standing just behind the rails of his stretcher, one to either side, with matching lengthening faces and red-rimmed eyes.

  “I thought your heart was normal,” barked Eddie. “You lied to me, Ben. Didn’t you tell me that your heart was normal?”

  “Didn’t you tell me that your buddy Alex wasn’t going to match Lizzie’s picture up? The way I see it, pal, we’re even, tit for tat.”

  “Yeah? Well I had a reason, Benny. I thought it was better for your state of mind if I didn’t tell you.”

  “And I had a reason too, Eddie. What good would have it done to tell you? I mean, look at you—and you too, kid.” With which, he turned leftward toward Tommy, who looked equally depressed, distressed, and alarmed by Ben’s condition. “What good would it have done to tell either of you? Or Carole, or Charlotte, or Cindy, or any of the crew back at AthCorp? Would telling anyone have made things better in the least?”

  Eddie was angry. Not at Ben. In the forty-odd years of their friendship, he had never been angry at Ben. But if not at Ben, then whom? Then what? Maybe he was angry at the fucking heart disease, or the researcher who discovered it, or the doctors who weren’t doing anything to make Ben well. Or maybe he was angry at God, or chance, or fate, or whatever his current philosophy of the time could find to blame. And the anger came out, not as much in his words as in the harsh abruptness with which he spoke them:

  ‘What good? What good? What about getting the damn thing treated, huh? The longer you wait with this goddamn heart bullshit, the less chance there is of getting you well.”

  “Calm down, Eddie. Ask Tommie here. He’s done the same research as me. Both of us have the same connection to the Net; and he’ll tell you if you ask him. There is no treatment. You get the damn thing and you die. Sometimes you die in years, sometimes in months, sometimes in seconds. Look it up; I did. The heart muscle thickens, and eventually it can’t pump, or else it gets so thick it closes off the blood vessels that supply it with blood. And then game over. So what? I’ve lived fifty-five fabulous years. I’ve done everything I ever set out to do; and more than ninety-nine percent of people ever achieve in the longest lifetimes. Hell, guys—and you remember this, Tommy; it’ll stand you in good stead for the future—If you haven’t achieved what you wanted to achieve in the first fifty-five years of your life, why the hell should God or fate or heredity grant you twenty more?”

  “We’re not giving up, Ben. I don’t care what you say, we’re not. From what I hear, the Cleveland Clinic has the best heart team in the country—in the world, that means—Tommy and I are gonna get you there.”

  “Hey, suit yourself, Eddie; I’m in no shape to protest. But they say that lifespan is dependent on the will to live, don’t they?”

  “They do. So in that regard, Benny, you gotta help us out.”

  “OK, then do your best to get that girl here—that perfect double of my Lizzie that you showed me on the screen. For thirty years I’ve dreamed an impossible dream of seeing her again. You get her here, just so I can look at her, and hear her voice, and touch her hand, and I may just fight like hell to stay alive a little more.”

  40

  Cindy wasn’t one to move around a lot without a damned good reason for the motion; the energy expenditure was just too great.

  Yes, immobility was her practice and her norm. But today? Ah, today things were different. Today there she was, up and pacing—bordering on frenetic, an observer might say: Straightening the chairs that faced her desk, shuffling through her papers—and from a standing position, no less!—walking the entire eight-foot distance all the way across to the opposite wall, where some of the books and manuals and brochures were lying haphazard on the shelves—They’d been tossed that way, by the way, primarily because she’d been too winded, too inert, or too busy stuffing a donut in her mouth at the moment to organize them properly or stack them straight.

  Today, however, the supersize Cindy was a beehive of activity: First the chairs, then the desk, now the shelves: Next, God knows what she was likely to find to keep her occupied, to keep her mind off what she was trying her damndest not to think about … until her exertions were interrupted by the phone:

  Over she waddled, downward she bent, and excitedly she looked. And the caller ID informed her who it was, and that it was just the very party she’d hoped it would be; whereupon she clicked the handpiece on, and answered:

  “Mr. P.!—Finally! I’ve been sitting here on pins and needles for the past two hours, sir. What’s happening? Is Mr. A. OK?”

  Mr. P., however, sounded glum: “Not exactly, Cindy. It’s the heart thing we were worried about. He had a bad attack of it today. We’re here in the hospital, and….”

  Cindy cut him short right there; she couldn’t help but interrupt: “The hospital! You said the EMT’s were going to check him out, but I didn’t think they’d take him to a hospital—So, you’re saying—it’s really serious, then?”

  “Yeah, majorly, Cindy; majorly. I made arrangements to have him transferred to another place—The Cleveland Clinic, which is not too far from here. They’ve got the best heart guys in the country there—Meaning the best guys in the world—And I guess there’s this one famous surgeon or whatever who’s treated Ben’s condition before with pretty good success, so I’m arranging a copter to take him there. We’ll be leaving in thirty or maybe forty minutes. Don’t worry though; whatever it takes, whatever it costs, whoever’s heads we’ve gotta crack to do it, we’re gonna get him well again. If it’s humanly possible, I can solemnly promise you that.”

  “Yes, but—I don’t understand, though, Mr. P.: That test he had last week—everything was negative, wasn’t it? I thought the doctor gave him a clean bill of health.”

  “That’s what he told us, Cindy, but what he told us was just a goddamn crock of shit—You know Ben; he’s quick with the good news but silent with the bad. Anyway, like I said, I found a guy who’s gonna make him better, and….”

  “You’re sure about this doctor? You’re positive Mr. A. is going to be alright?”

  “Not positive, no. Nothing is ever positive—But the guy we’re taking Ben to sounds pretty confident—Tommy talked to him just a little while ago; and he’s had a phenomenal track record with the disease—And you know the kid: If Tommy’s happy with the Clinic and the doctor, that’s money in the bank as far as I’m concerned; his judgment so far has been pretty goddamned good.”

  “Yep, it is, from all I’ve heard about him. Well, anyway, Mr. P, that makes me feel a whole lot better.”

  “OK, great. I’m glad you’re feeling better, Cindy—And while I’ve got you feeling better, darlin’, let me ask you something else: Ben keeps on bugging me about that Russian girl in the picture—like every couple minutes, which is how I know his heart is still OK. So? Did you manage to track her down? Benny wants her here right away—which means like yesterday, if you know Ben.”

  “Yeah, she’s coming, she’s on her way, Mr. P.—Just keep your shirt on, OK? I got her booked on a flight out of Moscow into Kennedy tomorrow morning—departing 9:25 Moscow Time. And when she lands, I’ll arrange either a commuter, or our copter, or I can have Luther pick her up—Three possible options; you tell me which.”

  “Whew! Great—you’re fabulous, sweetie-pie! You’re as fabulous as ever. How did you arrange it so quick? What did you have to offer her to come?”

  “Her? Liliana? I couldn’t get anywhere with Liliana—First of all, there was a little bit of a language problem when I called—My Russian’s not that good, as you probably might gues
s. But then I found a guy—You know that fellow Nick who works downstairs in accounting?”

  “Nick? Yeah, a short bald guy, isn’t he?”

  “Not exactly. He’s actually six-two or so and has thick black curly hair. Anyway, turns out he’s originally from Ukraine, and he speaks fluent Russian; so I got him up here and had him call on my phone while I was on the other line. He couldn’t get anywhere with the girl either—even in Russian—No to this, no to that, no to fricking everything. She couldn’t leave work; she wouldn’t travel to see some stranger she didn’t know—every objection you could come up with. Nick—Nikolai is his full name, by the way—He was on the line with her for half an hour at least, offering her money, offering her everything and anything—Until we got this great idea—I did or Nick did, I honestly can’t tell you which.”

  “Yeah, what idea is that? And make it quick, Cindy, I gotta get back to Ben—we don’t want to leave him alone, and poor Tommy’s gonna have to take a piss pretty soon; his goddamn eyes are turning yellow. So what did you finally do to make her go along?”

  “We asked to talk to her mother. She lives with her mother, I guess. She’s the one who always answers the phone.”

  “So you talked to her mother—And? What did her mother say?”

  “We offered the mother fifty grand cash up front in a suitcase, cash on delivery; and she couldn’t wait to push Liliana out the door. Bottom line, tomorrow, first direct flight Moscow to Kennedy. She’ll be in a little before noon. Just tell me where to ship her off from there.”

  “OK, great. You did great; you did fabulous. So find a flight from Kennedy to Cleveland; then give me the info and I’ll arrange to have one of our people meet her there—Oh shit! All your fucking questions, Cindy, you’re making me forget why I called you in the first place.”

  “You called to fill me in on Mr. A., didn’t you?”

  “I guess partly I did. You sure deserve that much, darlin’. You’ve been great to all of us, and don’t think I’ll ever forget it—Ever. But the main reason I called is—Hey, somebody’s gotta tell Carole what’s going on.”