by Hunt, Angela
I’ve only been on this level one other time, when I came up to see the man they call Hightower. On the wall opposite the landing I see signs directing me to the surgery, medical offices, a pharmacy, an exercise room, and an imaging center.
Below those markers, a handwritten sign on green paper says Kollman and points to the right.
I grip my folio and follow the corridor, noticing that the arched window at the end of this hallway has been blackened. A wry smile twists my mouth as I imagine boatloads of Spanish fishermen heading out before dawn and wondering why the nuns at the Convent of the Lost Lambs have every light blazing while the rest of God’s creation sleeps.
Another handwritten sign on a door catches my attention: Dr. Carey’s destination. I smother a smile as I knock. A moment later, a masculine voice bids me enter.
I open the door and am surprised by the room beyond. The space looks more like a loft apartment than an office, and even though a desk occupies one corner, I feel as if I’ve been temporarily transported to London or even New York. A low sofa and a modern chair occupy the nearest area, and beyond that stands an attractive dining set. The room is tall enough to enclose a spiral staircase that must lead up to the sleeping area.
I whistle softly. “Nice digs, Doc. How long have you been living here?”
The doctor smiles and tugs at his tie. “I’m not sure I’d describe it as living, but this work does keep life interesting.” He pulls the tie from his collar and pauses. “Sorry—this must seem rude, undressing in front of a guest. Truth is, I’ve had this thing on for hours and I’m about to choke on it. Cover, you know. I’m supposed to be a businessman come to consult with Sister Luke.”
I cough to cover a laugh. “Please, be comfortable.”
“I love a woman who’s flexible.” He tosses his tie onto the desk and gestures toward the sofa. “Have a seat. We can chat until Shelba brings our dinner.”
I sink onto a plush leather cushion. For the first time in six days, I wish I’d taken my usual pains with hair and makeup. In this isolated, windswept place, such things didn’t seem to matter…until now.
“So,” the doctor says, sliding into the chair across from me. “Tell me about this patient of ours.”
I’m grateful that the conversation is veering back toward business. “Sarah Sims—have you met her?”
He shakes his head. “You may have noticed that Glenda ‘Need to Know’ Mewton runs a tight ship. She’s given me free run of this third floor, but strongly suggested that I keep to my place while I’m in the convent.”
I lift a brow. “You don’t eat in the community dining room?”
“I didn’t know there was a community dining room.” He settles back and props his chin on his hand. “Congratulations. Glenda must trust you implicitly.”
I laugh. “I think it’s more likely that she believes in keeping her friends close and her enemies even closer. I’ve been a thorn in her side since before my arrival. Sarah has been under Glenda’s care more than twenty years, so I think I’m a bit of a threat.”
“She doesn’t trust you?”
“We don’t agree on what’s best for Sarah. I think she’s a viable candidate for a face transplant, but Glenda would prefer that Sarah remain as she is, staying here and doing whatever she does with computers. It hasn’t been easy, but I’ve managed to convince Sarah that she needs to give herself a chance to experience the world outside this place.”
Kollman nods. “Sounds reasonable. I’ve had to do skin grafts on burn patients who told me that living with severe facial disfiguration isn’t easy. The word suicide often creeps into the conversation.”
I lift my hand, warding him away from that topic. “Sarah’s not suicidal. I thought she might be suffering from body dysmorphic disorder, but she’s not obsessing about an insignificant physical defect, because her defects are real and major. On the other hand, she’s had no real opportunity to live in a heterogeneous society. She’s spent her entire life within these walls.”
“How old is she?”
“She turned twenty-one a few weeks ago.”
“And she’s spent all that time here?” Kollman whistles and then folds his hands. “Glenda said I might be doing some facial reconstruction even before we find a donor. Was the girl in an accident?”
“Didn’t Glenda tell you anything?”
“Glenda will speak no word before its appropriate moment. She did e-mail me a file, but I haven’t had a chance to read it.”
I sigh. “Sarah was born with Treacher-Collins Syndrome—a severe case. She has a working mouth, she can eat, she sees and breathes and hears with a cochlear implant. But her features—” I look directly into his eyes and hope he can see into my heart “—she looks out on the world through a pitiful excuse for a face. If she’s ever to leave this place and find happiness outside this facility, she’ll need our help—yours as a surgeon, and mine as a psychologist.”
“Does she want to leave?”
“Now she does. For years I think she believed she had nowhere to go, and Dr. Mewton has been kind to her. Sarah’s been well-educated, she watches movies and reads books. She’s not a recluse, but her social skills are limited.”
“You’re convinced she can adapt? If we change the circumstances of someone who’s not capable of coping, we might not be performing an act of kindness.”
“She wants to move forward—and with an improved appearance, I think she can put the past behind her. If you can give her a new face, I can teach her how to read visual cues and how to respond to people. If you can help her become physically normal, I can help her become socially adept.”
“I wonder.” The surgeon laces his fingers. “Is it possible to teach someone to live behind someone else’s face? We may be stepping into uncharted waters.”
Kollman’s eyes have gone soft and distracted, but they clear when he looks up at me. “I will do everything I can to help your niece, Dr. Carey. Because while Glenda Mewton is extremely capable, I don’t think there’s a comforting bone in her body. For the girl’s sake, I’ll sail these waters with you.”
“But—”
“Something else?”
“Something I have to know before we go any further.”
He straightens and sits on the edge of his seat. “Ask.”
“Are you a good surgeon?”
The question is tactless, faithless, and blunt, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
“Dr. Carey, put your mind at rest. I’m the best Uncle Sam can buy.”
“Yes, but doesn’t Uncle Sam always go with the lowest bidder?”
He tilts his head back and roars with laughter, not stopping until he’s progressed from crowing whoops to teary spasmodic squeaks. “Not…in…this…case,” he manages to say. “Do you know why I came in a day later than expected?”
I shake my head.
He wipes tears of mirth from his cheeks, then leans forward until I can feel his breath on my hair. “Emergency operation,” he whispers. “In Washington. Reattached a right little finger. The president got it caught in the limo door yesterday—it’s all very hush-hush. But you should be glad to hear that the First Pinky is bending and waving just as it should.”
My throat tightens and my eyes sting in a sudden surge of gratitude. Fortunately, I am rescued from a potential blubbering incident when Shelba knocks on the door. A moment later she brings in our dinner on a cart, so the doctor and I adjourn to the dining room to talk about less secret matters.
But I am deeply impressed with Vincent Kollman.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Sarah
By quarter past six, I can’t help but notice that my aunt has not come out for dinner. I glance across the table at Judson, who is calmly eating his salad as if he hasn’t noticed our missing guest. Dr. Mewton hasn’t come down, but she often eats in her office. Where is Aunt Renee?
I know I shouldn’t worry—after all, this is a beautiful July day and she’s in a secure facility. No one in this place would harm
her. But I can’t help but feel a twinge of unease on her behalf.
Wherever she is, she’s out of her element. She’s among savvy intelligence professionals in a facility that doesn’t officially exist. She’s not with the company, she has never been field trained, and as bright as she is, there’s so much about this place she’s not allowed to know….
The empty chair to my right seems to vibrate with emptiness.
I blurt out the uppermost thought in my mind: “Have you heard anything about my aunt? Where is she?”
Judson lifts his head as if scenting the air. “She’s not here? I thought she was just being quiet.”
I want to smack his hand. “Stop fooling around. I haven’t seen her since lunch.”
He spears a hunk of lettuce with his fork. “Maybe she’s taking a nap.”
“Then she’ll be hungry later. I should have Shelba make up a tray.”
“She’s a grown woman, Sarah. I think Renee can take care of herself.”
I pick up my fork and glance toward the hallway. Shelba is usually hovering near, waiting to hear if we want anything else, but there’s no sign of her, either.
I eat a tomato and force myself to calm down. It’s not like me to be nervous, but I’ve been anxious ever since Aunt Renee arrived. Maybe she’s put ideas in my head that shouldn’t be there.
I nibble at my salad and wonder if life on the outside would be one long chain of worries. What would I do if I lived alone in an apartment and had a medical emergency? What if I choked on a piece of cheese or had a reaction to a bit of bad salami? Who would help me? Who would know I needed help? Here I am constantly surrounded by friends, staff, and guards, but who would keep watch over me if I lived on the outside?
My belly fills with cold, as if I’ve swallowed an entire cup of ice.
“Jud,” I ask, scarcely daring to breathe. “When you lived on the outside, were you frightened?”
He stops chewing. “Of what?”
“Of…the unexpected. Of being alone.”
A line creeps between his brows. “You can’t think like that, Sarah. You’ll drive yourself crazy.”
“But were you?”
“You learn not to worry about things you can’t control. Life is bigger than us, anyway.”
I bend my head and watch as he goes back to eating, his fork moving up and down in an automatic pattern. Anything could be in his salad bowl—a bug, a button, a dust bunny—yet he doesn’t hesitate, because he trusts Shelba.
After a moment, he looks up again. “Saluda’s henchmen put me in this chair. I have to accept that.”
“And that doesn’t make you bitter?”
“What good would bitterness do me?”
I consider the question as I pick up my own fork. “No good, I suppose.”
“Eat your dinner before Shelba comes in and starts to fuss.”
I shovel salad into my mouth because I know it’s good for me. While I eat, I wonder if Aunt Renee is working. A new fear rears its head: What if she left the island? What if after poring over all those research articles she decided to bail because my case is hopeless?
I glance up when the clack of heels alerts us to Dr. Mewton’s approach. She appears in the doorway a moment later, a stack of folders in her arms. Shelba trails behind her, pushing a cart with our entrées.
“Dr. M,” I call before she has a chance to speak. “Is my aunt all right?”
“I suppose so.” Dr. Mewton glances at Renee’s empty chair. “Is she not eating dinner?”
“She and Dr. Kollman are eating in the apartment,” Shelba remarks, moving in to remove Judson’s salad plate. “I took their dinners upstairs.”
Dr. Mewton looks at me with a strange little smile on her mouth. “I wouldn’t worry about her, dear.” She slides into my aunt’s empty chair. “How are you feeling tonight?”
“Fine.”
“Good. Your aunt and I have arranged for your therapy to begin tomorrow. But if at any point you want to withdraw from this, all you have to do is let me know. You could have the procedure we discussed without participating in your aunt’s therapy program. I could give you the tools you need.”
“Don’t you think she has good ideas?”
“I’m against anything that pulls you away from your work. Your aunt, however, seems intent on delving inside your psyche.”
“Maybe she wants to know me better.”
“And maybe she wants to use you for a behavioral study. Who knows? In any case, know that I’m not requiring this of you. I’ve always thought you were perfectly fine just the way you are.”
I dip my head in a slow nod. “Understood.”
Across the table, Judson clears his throat and taps his finger on the tablecloth. I glance at his hand, but I can’t stop to decipher Morse code while I’m talking to Dr. Mewton.
“I must say, after investigating what will be involved in the surgery, I am surprised you want to pursue this,” Dr. Mewton continues, playing with the strand of pearls at her throat.
I swallow hard. “I want to be able to walk down a street without people staring. I want to look normal.”
Dr. Mewton casts a swift glance at Judson.
“It’s okay,” I say, my voice flat. “You don’t have to talk around the truth. Jud knows about my face. And he agrees with my decision.”
“So be it, then.” Dr. Mewton gathers her folders and stands. “I actually came down here,” she adds, “to tell you that Mr. Traut wants you to call him as soon as you get back to your desk.”
Judson waits until Dr. Mewton’s heels have clacked out of range before he leans toward me. “What do you think? Good news or bad from Traut?”
“I have no idea.”
“Whatever he wants, don’t let him talk you out of your decision. If they can fix you up, they need to do it.”
I draw a deep breath that catches on the lump in my throat. “I want to leave…and yet I don’t. I’d miss you something terrible, Jud.”
“That’s sweet, kiddo, but don’t let me stop you from conquering the world.” His hand slides across the table and catches mine. “I’ve always thought you were special. And no matter what you look like a year from now, know that you’re right up there with Halle Berry and Catherine Zeta Jones in my book.”
My eyes fill with water as I squeeze my friend’s hand. His skin is warm, and I’m beginning to understand why Aunt Renee enjoys touching people. “You’re a crazy old man, you know that?”
But I can’t deny that something in his smile has made me feel better.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Renee
I slice into Shelba’s baked chicken and try not to be too obvious as I study the man across the table. Vincent Kollman, handsome as he is, wears no wedding ring. His thick brown hair is going gray at the temples, and the parentheses around his mouth give him a look of determined resolve—definitely a good quality in a surgeon.
I ask if he’s looking forward to his next assignment.
“Of course,” he says, pausing to take a sip from his glass. “The entire idea of a face transplant—it’s a welcome challenge, but it’s incredibly complicated.”
“Could you explain in more detail?” I pause, fork in hand. “Unless the surgery is classified.”
He laughs. “Several surgeons around the globe are preparing to embark on facial transplants. We’re simply the first to find a viable candidate. Sarah’s surgery has nothing to do with national security.”
“I want her to have a new face, but I’m not sure I like the idea of her being a guinea pig.”
“You don’t have to worry. The procedure will be worked out long before we pick up a scalpel.”
I cut another piece of chicken breast. “Would you mind walking me through it?”
He shrugs. “No problem. Once we find a donor, I’ll prepare Sarah by excising all the fibrous tissue that has formed on her face. Once her old skin and some of the underlying muscles have been removed, I’ll examine her skeletal structure to be sure th
e bones will be a good fit for the donor’s skin.”
I glance up in alarm. “That’s a little late, isn’t it? What if the new skin doesn’t fit?”
He smiles. “It’s only a precaution—we’ll have made thorough measurements before we accept a donor.” He pauses to swallow a bite of chicken and closes his eyes. “I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. I didn’t have a chance to eat lunch today.”
I look down at my plate and smile, realizing that not many people would enjoy a gourmet meal along with a discussion of state-of-the-art surgery. “What happens next?”
“Well,” he says, still working on his entrée, “I’ll have to bring in several surgeons to help with the next step. Using microsurgical techniques, we’ll suture the blood vessels in Sarah’s face to those of the donor tissue. We’ll then connect the nerves and muscles. We’ll stitch in the lining of the mouth. Finally, we’ll attach the donor face by sewing a complete circle—starting beneath the chin, moving behind the ears, across the forehead, and down the other side.” He gestures with his fork, drawing an oval in the air. “You see?”
“I do. And I’m thrilled for Sarah, but—”
“But what?”
“She won’t be terribly scarred, will she? She’s already been through so much.”
“The stitches will be hidden in the hairline, behind the new ears, beneath the chin. Other scars will be inside the mouth and nose. Maybe a small scar in the neck. But nothing obvious, and nothing a light application of makeup wouldn’t cover.”
“Will she be able to speak? To chew?”
Vincent nods. “The nerves will regenerate. It may take four to five months, but they will work again. If all goes well, within a year no one meeting her on the street would ever guess she’d had any type of work done.”
I lower my fork as a blush of pleasure warms my cheeks. “I’m so thrilled for Sarah. I only wish she were as excited as I am.”
“It will be a tremendous change. She has to be anxious.”
“I’m sure she is…but she’s coping remarkably well, don’t you think?”
Vincent breaks into a friendly smile. “I think she comes from good stock.”
