Face, The

by Hunt, Angela

  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.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Sarah

  Dr. Mewton greets me with a perfunctory nod and leads me past her desk and through the doorway that opens into her apartment.

  I hesitate at the threshold.

  “It’s okay.” Dr. M tosses the words over her shoulder. “I know it’s late. I was going to let this go until morning, but—”

  “Let what go?”

  “—I just can’t.”

  She turns and waits until I step into the apartment. I glance around, taking in the sofa, the overflowing bookcase, the narrow bed against the window.

  “Dr. Mewton—” my voice trembles “—what’s wrong?”

  “Have a seat, Sarah.” She gestures toward a guest chair, then lowers herself onto the sofa. “I wanted to speak to you in private. This has gone on long enough.”

  Unable to imagine what she means, I stare straight ahead, one hand grasping the chair’s armrest.

  “Dr. Kollman pulled me aside a few moments ago. He told me about your meeting in the chapel.”

  I close my eyes. Heat floods my face, and my shoulders slump as something inside me crumbles. “Dr. Mewton—”

  “This is why you should put all thoughts of leaving out of your mind, Sarah. You think you were hurt and embarrassed this evening? You haven’t felt anything yet. You haven’t been publicly scorned or shamed. But here you’ve been protected, nurtured, given the best education money could buy. You’ve had every advantage—”

  “You call being locked away here an advantage?”

  “You’ve never been locked away. You’re free to come and go anytime you please.”

  I lift my hands so all ten fingers point to my face. “Like this?”

  “Count yourself blessed.” Dr. M leans forward and lowers her voice. “You think I don’t understand what you’re feeling? I do. Oh, I was never ugly, never misshapen. But I was every bit as different. It didn’t matter so much in high school, but in college, when all the other girls were concentrating on getting their marriage certificates, I was studying brain and cognitive sciences. I was brilliant, Sarah, as smart as you are, and I paid a price for it.”

  I cross my arms, determined not to listen.

  “It doesn’t matter why you’re different,” she continues. “Some women are ugly, some are stupid. Some are smart, some are talented. Men hate the latter two groups most of all, because most men are insecure and they feel threatened. And when they feel threatened, they react…often with violence.”

  Unwillingly, I lift my gaze to meet hers. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t you think I know how love can hurt?” She flushes when her voice cracks. “I loved a young man once. I gave him everything, and he gave me nothing but grief. And then, after he’d used my brain and my body, he turned on me—he and his friends.”

  She pins
me with her gaze. “They attacked me, Sarah. Violated me. When it was over, I knew I’d been a fool…and I knew I could never let myself be vulnerable again.”

  She reaches toward me, her hand trembling. “Ever since you were born, I’ve only wanted to protect you. If you get this transplant and leave the convent, you may look like everyone else, but you’ll always be brilliant. People will want to use you. That’s why I urge you to call off the surgery. Stay here where it’s safe. Stay here where I can protect you.”

  I stare at her cheeks, which are shiny with tears. Dr. Mewton…cries? She reaches for me again, but I scramble out of the chair and back away, not certain I can deal with both her emotions and the feelings burgeoning in my own chest. “If I stay…will you help me find out the truth about my father?”

  “Your father?”

  “I know he was working on an assignment when he died. I know he was tasked to investigate Saluda.”

  “That’s classified.”

  “I have clearance.”

  “Not for that. It’s need-to-know, and you don’t—”

  “But I do need to know, because he’s my father.” I underline the word with a ferocity I’ve never used with Dr. Mewton. “I wouldn’t exist without him, and he allowed me to be brought here. I want to know about my dad, and I need to know who killed him. Since we’re still investigating Saluda, we could find someone who knows details about how he died.”

  She looks away and exhales as if I’m testing her patience. “Is this what’s behind your talk of leaving? You think you can learn something about your father out there?”

  “I’m certainly not learning anything here!”

  “I hate to tell you this, but the world has a very short memory. Those who knew your father have been scattered or are dead. Didn’t your aunt say she’s the only one left in the family? And she’s here, not out there.”

  “She won’t be here long.”

  “Then ask your questions and tell her goodbye. But don’t listen to her, Sarah. Don’t listen to her promises of a brave new world—trust me, I’ve lived in the world and it’s neither brave nor new. It’s the same old mess, and people are as depraved and grasping as ever.”

  “Aunt Renee says people are good.”

  Dr. M rolls her eyes. “Like you, she watches too many movies. Well, dear heart, movies have to have a plot that makes sense. Real life doesn’t. People are born, they die, and sometimes you can’t understand why evil triumphs and good people suffer. But that’s the way life is…out there.”

  I straighten my spine. “I don’t believe it’s as bad as you say.”

  “Really? Then ask your aunt about the little ones who die because their crack-addicted mamas leave them out in the snow. Ask her about the child rapists who get their jollies from watching innocent ones suffer. Ask her about the children who are shuffled from foster home to foster home because no one cares. Ask her about the child soldiers who are rewarded for murdering their family members. That’s what the world is like, and if you don’t believe me, ask your aunt. Ask Holmes. He knows the truth.”

  My chin trembles as she returns my glare, then I spin on the ball of my foot and stride out of the apartment.

  “Sarah!”

  I don’t answer, but break into a run, slamming her office door behind me.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Renee

  I’m alone in the therapy room, reviewing Sarah’s comments on a series of facial photographs, when I hear her voice: “Aunt Renee?”

  I look up, glad to see that she must be feeling better. The girl refused to leave her room all weekend, so Judson, Dr. Kollman, and I heard several renditions of Shelba’s speech about how the girl works too hard. The cook and her cart made regular trips upstairs, however, delivering trays with Sarah’s meals.

  “I’m glad to see you,” I say, setting my reading aside. “I was beginning to be concerned—and I know Shelba was worried.”

  Sarah rolls her eyes and sinks into her chair. “Shelba loves to grumble that we’re not eating enough. Sometimes I think she’s only happy when we’re stuffing ourselves in the dining room.”

  Sarah glances at the photos spread over the table. “Did you have plans for us today?”

  “Actually, no. I thought I’d catch up on some reading. You can play the Sims game or evaluate more pictures, if you like—”

  “I think I’d like to take a walk. Want to join me?”

  The abrupt question, coupled with the way Sarah tilts her head toward the wall, raises my suspicions. I lift my gaze until I see the tiny camera mounted in the corner, then I shrug. “A walk outside might be nice. Shall we go downstairs?”

  “You bet.”

  Sarah says nothing as we trot down the stairs. When we step into the ancient graveyard, I wait for her to bring up whatever subject is on her mind, but she doesn’t speak until we have reached the bench beside the wall. She sits on the edge and hunches forward, tucking her fingers beneath her thighs. As she jiggles her feet like an overanxious schoolgirl, I sit next to her and scan our surroundings. I know the CIA has clever eavesdropping devices, but I have no idea what to search for, especially out here.

  Sarah waits until a hard gust blows her bangs into her eyes, then she squints at me. “I did something that could get me into a lot of trouble. I think I need advice.”

  I am about to gape at her, then I remember that someone could be watching from a camera or one of the windows. I’d better guard my own expressions.

  I force myself to relax my shoulders and smile up at the sky. “Care to explain that comment?”

  She clears her throat. “A couple of weeks ago I sent a query into cyberspace—and today I received a reply. Trouble is, the reply is from an enemy. And I made him an offer I wasn’t authorized to make.”

  In my years as a psychologist, I’ve heard many patient confessions, but never one with such serious implications. “What did you promise, Sarah?”

  She stares over the wall, where a thin film of clouds is sudsing the horizon. “A copy of the Guttenberg program—not all of it, but the lie detector module. I thought this person might be interested in knowing if his people are loyal. As it turns out, he is.”

  My mind spins with confusing thoughts. I am grateful that she has come to me, that she’s trusting me with this, but I am out of my element. I know nothing about national security, but I know Sarah is devoted to her country. I also know treason is a serious offense.

  “Sarah.” I resist my impulse to turn and grip her hands. “Why did you contact this person? What could possibly induce you to offer something so important to an enemy of the United States?”

  The corners of her mouth have gone tight, and her eyes are shiny. “The truth, Aunt Renee. The truth about how and why my father died.”

  My niece is chock-full of bombshell announcements this morning. Even as my blood floods with adrenaline, I remain perfectly still, rooted to the old bench like a witness to a fatal accident. “Why? Why would you do that?”

  She looks at me, her eyes large and fierce with pain. “Father of the Bride,” she says. “Father Knows Best, I Never Sang for My Father, Honor Thy Father, Father was a Fullback. Ghost Dad, American Dad, Major Dad, My Dad the Rock Star.” When she drops her gaze to her hands, sounds of the sea rush in to fill the brief silence. “I had Dr. M, so I knew what mothers were like. But I’ve never been able to imagine my dad. I watched so many movies…but none of them seemed to fit.”

  I want to protest that Glenda Mewton is nothing like Sarah’s mother, but this moment is not about Mewton. It’s about Sarah and her yearning for someone who would protect her, comfort her, and love her unconditionally. Her desire to know about the man to whom she would always be acceptable and worthy and precious. Her father.

  I understand. Lately I’ve found myself wanting to curl up in a safe nest with someone strong to watch over me.

  Sarah’s sniff brings me back to the present. My niece has taken some very real risks. “Sarah…have you received the informa
tion you wanted from this party?”

  “Not yet—but if I provide the program, he’ll give me what I want. And I’m pretty sure I can deliver it without being discovered.”

  I close my eyes, torn between wanting to urge her forward and wanting to throw myself between my niece and oncoming disaster. “Sarah—”

  “The program I’d give him is really not much better than the standard polygraph. And maybe the exchange is fair—after all, it’s almost like mutually assured destruction. If both sides have the same weapon, the odds are more favorable for détente, right?”

  I shake my head. “You’re rationalizing. You don’t bring about peace by giving opponents an equal number of guns.”

  “But Gutenberg’s not a weapon, it’s a tool. I don’t even see how he could use it against us. He’d use it to vet his own people.”

  “But what if his people include one of our agents? What if we manage to send someone in undercover?” I meet her eyes. “You don’t have to use code around me. You’re talking about Saluda, right? Adolfo Rios?”

  She nods as she pulls windblown hair out of her eyes. “That’s the case Dad was working on when he was killed. He was undercover, meeting someone from Saluda.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I accessed a file.”

  “One of Dr. Mewton’s?”

  “One…on a top secret archive stashed on a server in London. I don’t know if Dr. M even knows about it.”

  I turn away and resist the urge to clap my hands over my ears. I shouldn’t be hearing this, I shouldn’t encourage her, but she’s talking about Kevin.

  I brace my arms against the cold stone beneath us and lower my voice. “Tell me everything you know.”

  She straddles the bench to face me, but I’m sure she’s also trying to frustrate anyone who might be watching or trying to eavesdrop. “Kevin Sims was assigned to the Crescent Chemical Company under a nonofficial cover—and that’s dangerous, because NOCs have no diplomatic immunity, so they can be arrested and imprisoned for spying. Dad was tasked with offering Saluda’s black market operatives a new formula for heroin. Apparently the mission objective was planting a tracker for DEA agents to follow.”