by Freya Barker
It’s a miracle she hasn’t brought home an entire menagerie of lost and lonely creatures, both two and four-legged.
“Hey, Becca,” I greet the girl, bending down a little so I can look her in the eye. I notice she doesn’t even flinch at the state of my face. “You’re welcome to come play with Mak, honey, but we’ll need to check with your parents first.” That gets a reaction from the little girl, her expression one of concern as her eyes flit between Mak and me.
“She can just call from our house,” Mak offers, but I notice the girl, Becca, turns to look a little forlornly at the school bus, which is just disappearing around the corner.
I can’t leave the child standing on the street, so I wave her over. She hesitantly closes in and follows my daughter up the porch steps and in the house.
“So let’s call your parents,” I suggest, after sitting the kids down at the kitchen counter with a glass of chocolate milk and a muffin, and I hand Becca the phone.
She stares at it like it’ll bite her, before turning her worried eyes on me.
“My mom is probably still sleeping,” she says in a surprisingly raspy voice.
It’s the first time I’m hearing it; she’s managed with just nods so far. I’d expected something high-pitched, to match her small frame, but her voice sounds like whiskey.
“Sleeping?” I inquire, trying not to be too nosy but needing some information all the same.
“She works nights,” Becca explains. “And sleeps during the day.”
I can’t help but wonder what kind of work the mother does, but I bite my tongue. “Is it just you and your mom?” I ask instead.
“And my older brother,” she clarifies. “He drives to school in Cortez and doesn’t usually get home until later.”
“Okay,” I tell her, making a split-second decision since I don’t want to put the girl out. “You’re welcome to stay for an hour, but then I’m driving you home. We’ll clear things with your mom and go from there.”
Becca doesn’t look too pleased, but Mak more than makes up for that when she whoops out loud, grabs her friend’s hand, and drags her to her room.
I sit back down behind my computer at the dining room table.
It’s been almost a week since I ended up having lunch with Nick. I’d come home after that and immediately got cold feet. It felt like I might have jumped on his offer a little too eagerly. The offer was fabulous, and I can’t deny I felt a surge of excitement at the prospect, but I should’ve taken some time to consider. It’s not usually like me to decide on the spot, but it seems like I lose all independent thinking when I’m around that man.
I called him right away and let him know that I would prefer to finish my current assignment before embarking on something else, and he appeared very understanding.
Right now I’m writing up the final report with my findings to send off, and then I’m officially done with my last case. I promised Nick I would call as soon as I felt ready to make plans, which may be the reason why I’ve been dragging my heels on this one. For someone who lived by her appointment book and her promises most of her adult life, I certainly have grown an aversion to commitments these past months.
I’ve barely even opened the file when my phone starts buzzing on the counter.
“Hello?”
“Stacie? This is Linda at Dr. Ashrad’s office.”
“Hey, Linda! It’s been a while. Did I forget an appointment?” I ask, quickly pulling up my iCal on my laptop to check.
“No, no,” she hurries to assure me. “You didn’t. You weren’t due until the second week of October.”
“Pre-op on October thirteenth, I’m looking at it,” I confirm.
“Dr. Ashrad has had a cancellation September fourteenth, are you interested?”
“For the pre-op?”
“No, for the surgery.”
My heart instantly starts pounding in my chest. After the last surgery on my arm, earlier in the year, I decided to take a break and had half-heartedly booked the final surgery on my face toward the end of the year, thinking it was far enough away. September fourteenth is in two weeks and I don’t know if I’m emotionally ready for it.
There’s something comforting about knowing there is still room for improvement, but that’ll be gone once that surgery is done. What I end up with afterward will be as good as it gets, and that scares the crap out of me.
What if it’s a disappointment? What if they can’t lift the outside corner of my eye and get rid of that droop? What if they aren’t able to smooth out the edges of the graft? And, God forbid, what if I end up with another infection like the one in my arm and the scarring only gets worse?
Funny as it may sound, I’m just now getting used to my face. These past few weeks, I’ve looked in the mirror more than I did in the months prior. After this surgery I’ll have to start all over again.
“Stacie? Are you there?” Linda’s disembodied voice drags me from my swirling, slightly panicky thoughts.
“Yeah, I’m here. I’m just...what does it mean? I mean, I know what it means, but when do I come in for my pre-op appointment? What time is surgery? Will I see Dr. Ashrad before?” I ramble, the many panicked thoughts now freely tumbling from my subconscious. Linda softly chuckles on the other side.
“Two days prior, eight forty-five, and yes. In that order,” she answers, amusement in her voice. “Normally this could be done in day surgery, but he may want you to stay for one night to keep an eye out for infection.”
“Isn’t it a proven fact that the chance of getting an infection is highest in the hospital?” I point out, half joking, but half not.
“Not on Dr. Ashrad’s watch,” is the firm response. “Trust him to be invested in what’s best for you, Stacie. I understand this is your face we’re talking about, but for Dr. Ashrad it just emphasizes the need to be extra vigilant.”
“Understood,” I concur. I guess for a plastic surgeon, his patients become his walking advertisement. Or downfall, depending on how you look at it.
“By the way,” she says. “I’m looking at you right now.”
“Sorry?”
“Did you not see him at the gala? Dr. Ashrad? He bought a couple of your pictures for the clinic. They’re gorgeous!”
“I had no idea he was there,” I tell her truthfully, and a tad ashamed. Clearly my mind hadn’t been functioning on all cylinders. “Which ones?”
“Not to worry, he purposely chose ones where the face is not or barely visible. Only reason I know it is you is because he told me,” she clarifies.
So not the large close-up of my face. Isla mentioned it was bought by an anonymous bidder, and the thought of some stranger looking at my face is slightly unnerving.
When the girls come charging into the kitchen half an hour later, I haven’t done a lick of work on my report. I am, however, scheduled for pre-op at ten-thirty on the twelfth, and am to check in at six-thirty a.m. the day of surgery.
“IS THIS YOUR HOUSE?” I ask Becca, pulling up to a rundown double-wide in the trailer park across the road from the Baptist church. She’d told me to drop her off in the church parking lot initially, but I made it clear I wasn’t about to dump a nine-year-old in an empty parking lot. It took some doing, but she eventually told me she lived in the trailer park on the south side of the road.
“Yes,” she says, not quite meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror, but not making a single move to get out.
“Becca? Could you see if your mom is awake so I can meet her?”
I roll down my window and watch as the little girl reluctantly makes her way to the side of the trailer, where an upside down milk crate serves as a step to get in. Before she even has a chance to touch the door, it’s already flying open, almost knocking Becca on her ass.
A slightly disheveled woman, blonde hair tied back in a lopsided ponytail, wearing men’s boxer shorts with a tank top, grabs Becca rather firmly by the upper arm and pulls her into the trailer. Not before shooting a scathing look in the direct
ion of my car, though. I guess that means we won’t be friends.
A quick glance in the rearview mirror shows that Mak did not miss that. She looks sad and stares at the trailer.
“Hey,” I call back, getting her attention. “How about we head over to the Depot for some fries and a shake?”
The smile and the enthusiastic headshake are instantaneous, but when I pull away, I catch her throwing a last look at the trailer out the rear window.
NICK
“Tomorrow let’s tackle the roof on the small barn. Last week when we had that rain come through, the horses stayed drier under the overhang covering the outside pen than they did inside the barn itself.”
I’m glad we’re onto more palatable dinner subjects now. As my Pops ages, his choice of casual conversation over a meal, more often than not, includes the day’s special on ailments or a detailed report on bodily functions.
Today’s topics of choice had been ingrown toenails and the effects of the latest pinto bean crop on a senior’s digestive system. Yeah, my dad can be a laugh-and-a-half at the dinner table.
“Absolutely,” I say, trying not to sound too relieved at the change in topic. “Do we still have a few of those corrugated roof panels we used on the shelter for the woodpile?”
“Probably just one or two,” Pops answers, before taking another massive bite of his hamburger.
“Maybe we’ll head into Cortez in the morning?”
“We can hit Denny’s for breakfast,” he says, slurping the dregs of his milkshake loudly.
Pops is a man of simple pleasures: a regular constitution and a hearty meal. Throw in a beer occasionally and he’s a happy man. He also likes predictability, which is why I’ve made it a point, in recent years, to keep my schedule clear on Friday afternoons. We go out for an early meal—Pops likes to eat at five—and catch up on our weeks, before planning out our weekend.
I don’t have much of a life outside of work. Sadly, my father is responsible for the bulk of my socializing. Friday dinners at a restaurant of his choice, and the weekends mostly putzing about our property. There are days when I feel more like sixty than the barely forty years I’m old.
“Now there’s a sight for sore eyes.”
I barely register Pop’s voice as I focus on my chicken-fried steak sandwich, until the melodic cadence of a familiar voice pierces my awareness.
“First pick a booth, Mak, and then we’ll order.”
I swivel around in my seat to find Stacie’s daughter staring back at me.
“Hey,” I offer in greeting, my eyes immediately looking for, and finding, Stacie behind her. I can feel my face crack open in a big smile.
“Hi,” is the cheerful reply, along with Stacie’s more subdued, “Hello.”
“You friends of my son?” Pops pushes half out of his seat, the paper napkin he habitually tucks in his collar to catch the inevitable crumbs and stains flutters down to the floor, as he sticks out his greasy hand in greeting.
Instead of bouncing my head off the table a few times, which I’d like to do, I also stand up.
“Stacie, this is my father, Henry Flynn. And, Pops, this is Stacie Gustafson and her daughter, Makenna. Stacie is a colleague.” I’m not quite sure why I add the last, but the moment I see my father’s eyes narrow on Stacie’s face, a feeling of doom settles in my stomach. My pops is not exactly known for tact or subtlety.
“Why don’t you join us?” I quickly ask, hoping to avoid what I know is sure to come. Stacie opens her mouth with what I fear will be an objection, but Mak easily slides into the booth beside Pops.
I feel bad for Stacie, who is left standing a little awkwardly next to the table. I grab her hand and gently pull her to sit down. I try to glare at Pops to warn him off when he leans over the table, his head slightly tilted to the side, but he’s like a dog with a bone.
“What happened to your face?”
And there it is.
I’m still contemplating my father’s imminent demise, while desperately seeking for ways to soften the shocked expression on Stacie’s face at the impact of his words, when her little girl pipes up.
“She got burned in an explosion. Gnarly, right? You should see her arm.”
I watch Stacie’s eyes pop open at her daughter’s callous description, but Pops is immediately distracted.
“The explosion up on the mountain last winter? That was your mom? Damn, I heard that was bad.”
“She almost died,” Mak says, her face somber.
“Yeah, but she didn’t, did she?” Pops counters sagely, and I throw up my hands, there’s no way to stop this train wreck. “Looks pretty alive to me.”
Stacie’s eyes, round as saucers, turn to me. Surprisingly, I see a glimmer of humor in their depths.
“Thank God,” her daughter blurts out dramatically, and the whole situation suddenly becomes comical in the most surreal way.
“Yeah—thank God,” Pops echoes, a smirk on his face as he winks across the table at Stacie, who promptly bursts out laughing, and I can’t hold back a chuckle. “Besides, they can fix that, you know?”
“Oh, I know,” Mak says wisely, tucking her paper napkin in the collar of her shirt, mimicking my dad. A move that makes all of the adults at the table smile. “Mom’s having her face done in two weeks.”
After a little confusion—during which the waitress shows up to take Stacie and Mak’s orders, and Pops takes the opportunity to order another milkshake and an order of fries—I manage to glean that having her face done means Stacie apparently has another surgery scheduled.
I’m happy for her, but I’m also a little apprehensive. I don’t want her to back out of my job offer. Distractedly, I’m picking at my fries with half an ear on the chatter between Pops and Makenna. Apparently sweet potato fries are far tastier and healthier—according to Makenna. My father is of a different opinion, and loudly touts the beauty of the original spud. If I weren’t distracted by thoughts of the woman sitting next to me, I’d probably laugh at their harmless bickering. They sound like an old married couple, except one is nine and the other seventy-eight.
A warm hand lands on my forearm and I turn my head to look at its owner. Stacie sends me a faint smile.
“Surgery was scheduled for later in the year, but they had an opening earlier. I thought it was probably better to do it now, because later it might interfere with active cases? Hope that’s okay with you,” she says, searching my face for answers. I’m trying to hang on to my blank expression, because I’m worried the big grin that is itching to break free would seem too maniacal. “I’m sure I’ll be on my feet in a few days,” she adds, probably interpreting my silence wrong.
“God, that’s a relief,” I blurt out on a sigh, resulting in surprise and then a snicker from Stacie.
So much for my self-restraint.
Without really thinking it through, I lean in and lightly brush my lips over hers.
“Something you want to tell me, Son?”
I ignore Pops and keep my eyes on Stacie’s face. An entire gamut of emotion plays out over her features, and finally lands on a blank poker face.
As if I didn’t just kiss her out of the fucking blue, Stacie picks up her hamburger, opens wide and takes a humongous bite, chewing with perhaps a tad too much vigor.
I sneak a peek across the table, where Mak is still stuck in shock, and Pops has a grin on his face and shakes his head at me.
Me—I don’t know if I just fucked up or scored big.
I’m at a total loss.
CHAPTER 6
Stacie
“Mom, are you coming in?”
Mak’s voice pulls me right back to the here and now, which is parked on the dirt shoulder outside of my own house.
Don’t ask me how I got here. I don’t think I could tell you, even though the restaurant we just left is around the corner. Years spent in courtrooms have trained me never to show whatever plays out inside my head or my heart. I can appear unaffected, while falling apart emotionally.
> Kind of like what just happened in that booth.
I don’t know what happened. One minute I’m laughing at something he says and the next his really nice, firm lips are pressed against mine. The kicker is, I didn’t even move. I just let him kiss me; in a booth at a restaurant, with his father and my daughter sitting smack across from us, and I did not even consider stopping him for one second.
Unable to process, I did what I do best. I let years of training take over and dismiss the entire incident as a just vague blip on my radar. For appearances only, because inside my head, and my heart, it’s chaos.
“I’m coming,” I mumble, grabbing my purse and getting out of the car.
Once inside, Mak immediately flicks on the TV to catch her favorite show, and after a perfunctory, “Homework done?” to which I received an affirmative, I disappear into my bedroom. I change into a pair of soft, flowy lounge pants and an old T-shirt, and walk into my bathroom to wash my face.
The lighting over the vanity is purposely harsh. I had Ben change out the light fixture that was here before, because it gave off a muted, softer light. If I’m going to look in the mirror, I want to know exactly what others are looking at when they see me outside. I don’t want to delude myself into thinking it’s not as bad as it is and be surprised or hurt by reactions.
A fine theory, but the reality is that even if I’m looking at the same thing they are, I have no way of knowing what they see. Or how they will react. More than that, I don’t even seem to control my own reactions, because I still get upset, or hurt, by the way some people look at me. The irony is that I can be just as judgmental, just as quick with my knee-jerk response to how others react to me. It’s the monkey on my own back that colors the way I see the world now.
I scrutinize my face in the mirror, and try closing my eyes for five seconds before opening them again, to see what part of my reflection I automatically focus on first. Hardly a viable scientific test, but even knowing the scars are there, I find my eyes first, every time. The eyes, then the one droopy side comes into focus and from there the scarring.
