Face, The

by Hunt, Angela

  “Who is she?” The words slip from my tongue before I can stop them. “If she’s not part of the agency, how’d she find out about me?”

  “Apparently,” Dr. Mewton says, her voice heavy, “she’s followed an old paper trail. She doesn’t know anything of consequence, but she knows who you are. She doesn’t know about this facility, but she knows you’re under the company’s protection.”

  She knows who you are. The simple words slip under my skin, warming my flesh with an unexpected sensation that leaves me amazed and unsteady.

  I don’t even know who I am. So who is this woman?

  “This is crazy.” A flush suffuses even the scars on Judson’s cheeks with deep color. “If she’s a civilian, she has no clearance. Without clearance, she can’t know about Sarah or this place—”

  “She’s applied for a security clearance and a job,” Dr. Mewton says, her voice low and level. “And she might get what she wants. Some people in the company believe the rights of family supersede the rights of government.”

  The skin on my forearms contracts at the word. “But I have no family—”

  “Apparently you do,” Dr. Mewton finishes. “Renee Carey is your father’s sister. She’s your aunt—that’s why she wants to see you.”

  Judson turns toward me, his mouth open in a silent gape. But he does not know what Dr. Mewton and I do—that in the twenty years I have lived here, no one has ever really wanted to see me.

  After leaving Judson in the dining room, I slip down the narrow hallway that leads to the old convent graveyard and the small strip of earth that passes for a wildflower garden. Dozens of ancient nuns are buried here, each anonymous grave adorned only with a carved stone cross. Dr. Mewton refers to this walled patch of grass as our courtyard, but for me it is a sanctuary.

  I come here when my heart is too full for words, when my mind is unsettled and my feet are restless. Six-foot walls surround the courtyard, ensuring the nuns’ separation from the world even in death, but this is the one place I can roam without worrying that an idle word or gesture will be recorded by a listening device or a concealed camera. I have often wondered if Dr. Mewton has thought of monitoring even this area, but no one comes here often enough to make it worth the effort.

  And yet her news has driven me to this place. I have family, she says, an aunt, a woman who knows who I am and is trying to find me. If that’s true, this woman knows more about me than I know about myself. She knows where I come from, who my mother was. She knows my father.

  Maybe she knows why I’m here.

  I scramble up the side of the uneven stone wall and peer out over the edge, allowing my eyes to fill with the sight of sun, sea, sky. My hands, resting against the jagged rocks, warm with ambient heat as a long-abandoned yearning seeps out of a locked crypt hidden deep within me.

  I close my eyes and hunch forward as an odd pain makes me catch my breath. I can’t allow myself to hope, to wait, because I’ve hoped and waited before. I’ve searched the night skies for reindeer that never came, for angels that never sang, for saints who never appeared.

  Now Dr. Mewton says I have family, an aunt. If only this woman would come; if only she would look at me…and not wince.

  If only… I have whispered those words so many times.

  If only I had parents.

  If only I had been born in America.

  If only I had a face like everyone else’s, I might be loved.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Renee

  I halt in the parking lot outside Panera Bread and lift my face to the breath of a sweet eastern breeze. Becky, who’s keeping an eye on the clock, stops on the sidewalk, a question on her face. “Did you forget something?”

  I shake my head. “It’s just—Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

  “Gorgeous,” she says, rolling her eyes. “May I remind you that we don’t have time to appreciate the weather? You have a patient coming in at one, so we have less than an hour for lunch.”

  “I’m coming.” Reluctantly, I lower my head and follow her into the store, where we stand in line with dozens of other harried Virginians.

  Becky and I decide on soup and sandwiches, then take our orders to a table. She’s been waiting all day for the opportunity to tell me about her son’s problem with his first grade teacher, so I listen, murmur sympathetically, and smile in what I hope are all the right places.

  But I can’t help watching my fellow diners. We are only a few miles from Langley, which means that anyone in this restaurant could work for the CIA. The fluffy woman struggling to fit a lid on her supersized soft drink might be an analyst; the stubbly man tapping on his computer by the window might be sending a secret message to a Russian spy in the parking lot. The baby-faced guy who just dropped a cup into the trash can might be leaving a message for the Panera Bread employee who is coming over to empty the trash and retrieve the marked cup—

  Becky taps my arm. “So…what should I do?”

  “Do? About what?”

  She rolls her eyes. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”

  “Yes, I have. Your son’s first grade teacher is a bully.”

  “And?”

  “And you want to know if you should go talk to her.”

  “And?”

  “And…” At a sudden loss for words, I drop my chin into my hand. “Maybe you should start over again.”

  “Renee Carey.” Becky slumps against the back of the seat and gives me an incredulous look. “Where have you been lately?”

  I bite my lip. I want to tell her that since attorney John Lipps has been quietly advancing my case in the intelligence community, I’ve been reading spy novels and nonfiction books about the CIA. I’ve been realizing that we live in a part of the country where nothing is what it seems and the Honda salesman next door may be anything but what he appears to be.

  Instead, I smile and pick up my cup. “Tell me again about your son’s teacher,” I say. “I promise to listen to every word.”

  “Forget it.” She digs in her purse, pulls out a tissue, and blows her nose. “Allergies. They drain me. I don’t think I have the strength to tell that story again.”

  “If it’s any help,” I offer, “I think communication is the key. Go to this teacher, talk to her, and listen. Maybe you’re taking two different approaches to the same problem.”

  Becky tilts her head and smiles. “You know, for a shrink who didn’t hear a word I said, that’s pretty good advice.”

  “That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

  “I’m going to pay you with something different. Here.”

  From the depths of her voluminous purse, Becky pulls out a green plastic figure that at first appears to be all arms, legs, and eyes. She drops it on the table in front of me. “Don’t you recognize him?”

  I pick up the figure and run my thumb over the soft vinyl. “Didn’t he used to have a TV show?”

  “I think so. Or maybe it was a commercial.”

  “Gumshoe? Gummy?”

  She hits me with a triumphant smile. “Gumby. Remember him? I used to love this little guy.”

  “And you’re giving me this because…”

  “Because you need a little laughter in your life, girlfriend. You’ve been entirely too intense lately.”

  I lift my hand, about to argue that it’s not easy to be the life of the party when you deal with depressed patients all day, but something about Gumby and his little yellow smile chases the impulse away.

  I stand Gumby on his legs and walk him over the table. “I can’t wait to show Elvis.”

  “That’s another thing,” Becky says, her voice deepening with concern. “You need another confidant. Elvis is a wonderful dog, but he’s not human.”

  “But you are. And I have you.”

  “Yes…and many a time I’ve worried that we have strayed too far outside a proper psychologist-receptionist relationship.”

  I glance up, afraid she’s being serious, but the light of humor dances in her eye
s. “Are you saying I need to get out more?”

  “Exactly. It’s what you’d tell a patient in the same situation. You need to develop outside interests, tackle a project, maybe take a vacation.”

  “Funny you should say that.” I give her a smile as I drop Gumby into my purse. “I’ve been thinking along those very same lines.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sarah

  A light rain is sending long, hesitant runnels down the windowpanes by the time I return to the operations room. When I take my seat at my station, I find an urgent message from Raven, one of my contacts at the DS&T. He wants to see a revised version of the Gutenberg program ASAP, so I create a zip file with the latest incarnation and send it over a secure connection. He should find no problems with it, but I’m not ready to stake my reputation on its reliability.

  When I am sure the file has been sent and received, I log on to Intelink and search for “Renee OR Rene OR Renae Carey.” No hits, but I shouldn’t have expected any if the woman doesn’t work for the company.

  At his station, Judson begins to chuckle. I ignore him, but after a minute he pulls one of his earphones from his head and turns his face toward me. “Hey, kiddo. I’ve got an IM here from Raven.”

  “I’ve already sent the file he wanted.”

  “He doesn’t want to know about the file. He’s asking me if you’re good-looking. Obviously—” he cackles with barely-restrained glee “—this guy doesn’t have a clue about the Candyman.”

  I stop scanning my monitor and stare at Judson, momentarily overcome by the irony. “Tell him,” I finally say, “that your partner is drop-dead gorgeous.”

  “What if he wants details?”

  I blow out a breath. “Eyes, cheeks, nose—I’ve got ’em. You have the gift of elaboration. You fill in the details.”

  “That I can do.” Judson flashes me a white smile, then readjusts his headphones and snaps at his keyboard, his fingers flying over the keys.

  I draw a deep breath and return my attention to my computer screen. I’ll never understand why men are so focused on physical attractiveness, but as long as they are, I’ll have no choice but to live a celibate life.

  Next, I log on to Intellipedia, a wiki open to officers from all sixteen American spy agencies. If Dr. Carey has done anything of interest to the intelligence community, I might find her name here…but I come up with nothing.

  Finally, I log on to A-space, the spooks’ answer to MySpace and Facebook. The top secret network allows agencies to share photos, notes, and gossip, but again, I come up with nada on Renee, Rene, or Renae Carey.

  So I look up the name on Google and discover an absolutely overwhelming number of hits in open-source material. Renee Carey is, according to the Web, a Democratic city council member in Houston, a psychologist living in McLean, Virginia, and a photographic artist living in Boston.

  Dr. Mewton says Renee Carey is my aunt…and I have no experience with the word. Scarlett O’Hara had an Aunt Pittypat who proved useless in crisis situations. I’ve watched Auntie Mame, a 1958 movie about a young boy who grows up as the ward of his father’s eccentric aunt…and I’ve found myself wondering what happened to the boy’s mother. Was she dead like mine?

  An incoming message on the secure server interrupts my musings. Raven is impressed with my progress on the brain scan program, but wonders if I’ve had a chance to create subprograms with culturally specific cues. I respond with a question: What culture did you have in mind?

  The answer appears within seconds: Islamic. With subprograms for Sunni, Sufi, Shi’a, and Kharijite sects. Do you like jazz?

  “Your friend,” I call to Judson, “is hitting on me.”

  “Better let him down easy,” Jud answers, “or he’ll be thinking he can wander through those marble halls until he finds you working in a cubicle.”

  I’ll research those sects, I type. But I only like jazz on the fifth Tuesday in February. Sorry.

  When the message disappears, I type my father’s name into the Google search box. I click Enter and wait as the screen fills with the same links that appeared yesterday and the day before.

  Nothing new.

  Then I enter my aunt’s name again and select the link for the psychologist in Virginia. A professional Web site fills the screen, revealing a picture of a stucco building situated beneath a spreading tree. Under the photo of the office I see a picture of a woman who might be anywhere from thirty to fifty—I’m not good at guessing ages. Like me, she has brown hair and dark eyes.

  Nothing else about her face matches mine.

  I lean closer and peruse the page. According to the information presented here, Dr. Renee Carey has been practicing psychology since 1997 and specializes in mood disorders, particularly clinical depression and bipolar disorder. She looks prosperous, healthy, and happy.

  So…why does this woman want to meet me now? Is she suffering a midlife crisis? Maybe she’s stuck at step eight of a twelve-step program, struggling to make amends to all the people she’s harmed or ignored during her lifetime…

  I activate my screen saver as something thumps against my desk. Judson has pulled off his headphones and wheeled himself over to my station. “Sarah, sweetheart. Want to do me another favor?”

  “Can’t, I’m busy.”

  His charming smile disappears. “You okay? You sound uptight.”

  The man has developed an uncanny knack for reading my voice. I glance toward the hall, then glare at the intercom. Well, let her listen. It’s not like I’m about to threaten our national interests.

  “Why—” I turn toward Judson “—after all this time, why would my aunt want to see me?”

  Jud folds his hands across his chest. “Have you ever met anyone from your family?”

  “I didn’t know I had family. I never knew my parents.”

  “They were with the company?”

  “My father was.”

  “What did he do?”

  “That…I don’t know.”

  Judson presses a finger across his lips. “I think,” he says sotto voce, “that if it’s at all possible, you ought to meet this aunt. Everyone has a family, Sarah, and everyone deserves to know where they come from. It’s only right that you should give yourself the opportunity. Aren’t you even curious about this woman?”

  I remain silent as I sort through my thoughts. Judson must sense that I’m confused, because for once he allows me to process without interruption. “I think…it might be nice to meet someone who grew up with my father.”

  “Good grief, kid, don’t you even know your own heart? You’re too young to be so detached.”

  I stiffen. “I’m not so young. And I’m certainly not detached.”

  “Oh, yes you are.” Tremors of mirth fracture his voice. “I know you’re smart, kid, but I also know you haven’t spent a lot of time in the real world. Sorry, but it shows.”

  “Dr. Mewton says I’m quite culturally literate.”

  “Do you hear yourself? Normal kids your age don’t go around thinking of themselves as culturally literate. I don’t care how many movies you watch, until you step out and live your life, you’re never going to understand why you’re even on the planet.”

  His broad hands rise to clasp the sides of his head, and though he’s wearing a smile, his arms are tense, as if he’s in some kind of pain. “I know we’re not supposed to talk about certain things, but it’s not right that you should stay here, kiddo. I thought only lunatics and NOLs like me ended up in this place—”

  “NOLs? Explain the acronym.”

  “Figure it out, girlie. If you’re so smart, you can put the pieces together.”

  I lower my gaze, unable to bear the pressure of his sealed eyelids and twisted visage. “I’ve lived here all my life. When my parents died, Dr. Mewton became my guardian. She’s been looking after me ever since.”

  “Ah.” Judson lifts a brow. “That explains a lot.”

  “About what?”

  “About why you’re the tea
cher’s pet. But let me guess something—this surgery, did it have something to do with your ears?”

  Ears, mouth, nose, jaw, teeth, skull…but he doesn’t need all the details. “How could you tell?”

  “Something in your voice reminds me of this deaf girl I knew once. She could talk and read lips, but her voice always sounded…kind of hooty.”

  “Hooty? Like an owl?”

  He shrugs. “It’s hard to explain.”

  My hand rises to touch the cochlear device implanted in the right side of my head. “I’ve had good hearing for years.”

  “Don’t get all self-conscious on me. Your voice is fine. It’s just different, that’s all.”

  “Different from what?”

  “Forget I mentioned anything. You’re fine.” Judson parks his elbow on the armrest of his chair and drops his chin into his palm. “So…are you going to write this aunt of yours?”

  “I want to…but Dr. Mewton doesn’t like the idea.”

  “This one goes beyond Mewton. Sounds like your aunt has a friend or two in high places, so go ahead, invite her to our little fortress. If at any point you feel uncomfortable, you can always send her away.”

  “I don’t know. The Gutenberg project has me tied up—”

  “Look, kid, you’ve got no reason to lay your entire life on the company altar. Live a little, take a chance. Don’t push this woman away or you might turn into Spock for real.”

  I’ve watched enough Star Trek DVDs to understand he’s saying I might turn into some kind of emotionless Vulcan. I exhale through my teeth as I consider his advice, then I extend my leg and gently tap his wheelchair with my foot. “Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

  “Course you will. Now—can you find a way to print Luscious and Lonely’s picture in Braille? If you were really grateful, you’d find a way to make that happen.”

  “Keep dreaming, Jud,” I tell him, turning back to the computer. I ought to get back to work on Gutenberg, but one of Jud’s questions hovers at the edge of my mind: what did my father do for the company?