Zippered Flesh: Tales of Body Enhancements Gone Bad!
Page 19
He stood. He looked like a giant as he came around the desk and offered his hand to her. “Let me help you, Miss Aldopita. I promise, soon your bald past will be nothing more than a faint memory.”
She was caught off guard when he explained the procedure in detail—but really, what did she expect? After all, you can’t order scalps from a catalog, and how many women were willing to donate their entire head of hair to a stranger? They had to scalp someone. There’d be hell to pay if anyone found out what they were about to do. The agreement they made was unconventional, immoral ... criminal. But Alesha would sell her soul to the devil and tell him to keep the change, just to wake to the possible experience of bad hair days.
He warned her of all the usual risks—potential scarring, serious infections, and the possibility of tissue rejection if her medications weren’t monitored carefully. But after twenty-three years of humiliation and insecurity, those risks were insignificant. Alesha’s only real concern remained in finding the one head of hair that would be the envy of everybody she’d meet.
She found the hair sooner than she’d anticipated.
The sun bathed the sidewalks in an intense heat that bounced around the moving crowds in waves. Alesha stopped outside a tinted coffee shop window, debating on the purchase of a frozen beverage, as she studied the street at her back in the murky reflection. The glazing transformed the passing people into indistinct shadows that floated by. A sudden shock of glowing copper invaded the chiaroscuro—a manifestation of gilded snakes that slithered across the glass and disappeared into the door frame. Frappuccino forgotten, Alesha trailed the hallucination to an office building a couple streets over.
Perched on a bench outside the building, she searched the throng of executives and secretaries that flooded the sidewalk that evening. In a sea of carbon-copy grey suits and skirts, the lush sheen of long henna curls caught her eye. They bounced in the early evening breeze, beckoning her closer. Alesha hid in the crowd, following just near enough to keep her sights locked on the shimmering strands that fluttered like a flag at dusk.
When the young woman entered an apartment building less than a mile from Alesha’s walk-up, she waited a beat and entered the lobby, just in time to see a door on the second floor landing slam closed. This is it. She’s practically in my own backyard!
The initials on the mailbox read A.A. It was the only sign she needed.
Hiding under a stairwell, Alesha clenched and unclenched her fists to stop their shaking, fighting against a myriad of “what ifs.” For instance, what if the woman fought back? What if the chloroform didn’t work? What if her boyfriend happens to be a police officer who randomly stops by for an unexpected booty call, had his own set of keys, and bursts into the place after the woman is unconscious but before Dr. Pift arrives to collect her body?
She checked her watch. 1:30 a.m. Copper Curls still hadn’t returned home. Alesha’s stomach sank as another “what if” came to mind: What if she doesn’t come home tonight?
The lobby door creaked as it swung open, and Alesha reached for the bottle in her jacket pocket. From the shadows, she watched as the woman checked her mailbox, and then ascended the stairs. Alesha tiptoed to a back stairwell that she had discovered earlier and climbed them two at a time, the soft soles of her sneakers muffling the sound of her steps.
Copper Curls fumbled with her keys, dropping them with a mumbled curse. Alesha prepared to sprint, cloaked in the dark doorway. Okay, get ready now ...
As Copper Curls pushed open the apartment door, Alesha sprang from the doorway, chloroform-soaked rag in her hand. In a fluid motion that could’ve been rehearsed, she cupped the towel over Copper’s nose and mouth before she could struggle. Alesha leveraged her weight against the woman and pushed them both into the apartment. Shoved toward a squat sofa, Copper went limp and sprawled like dead weight over the cushions. Alesha rushed to retrieve the keys and close the door, locking the deadbolt as she fumbled for the light switch.
The woman splayed across the couch like she’d had too much to drink. Alesha pressed two fingers to her limp wrist. Copper’s pulse was a little uneven, but strong. She pulled her cell from her pocket and called Dr. Pift.
While the doctor was enroute to collect the donor, she studied the woman’s cascade of curls. They appeared wet to the touch, the color gleaming, shifting between penny-copper and fire-red. In direct light, the effect looked holographic. She slid her fingers into the silky weight, stunned by how cool it felt as it twined around her skin. Searching for the base of Copper’s skull, she lifted the heavy tresses, breath caught in her throat as her fingertips caressed her skin. No clips. No weaves. Not even discolored roots.
My hair.
Clara, Dr. Pift’s assistant, helped Alesha into her surgery gown. While they retrieved the donor, Clara had been prepping the operation room for the procedure. Heart monitors, I.V.s, breathing masks for the anesthetic, and several metal carts with various instruments and needles lined both beds. The doctor wanted to begin the transplant before sunrise.
“Are you allergic to shellfish, strawberries, kiwis, bananas, or poinsettias?”
Alesha climbed onto the gurney. “No ... why?”
Clara checked off boxes on a chart. “Standard questions. We need to know if you are allergic to iodine or latex.”
“No allergies that I’m aware of,” Alesha shrugged. After a moment, she cleared her throat and said, “You know, I probably should’ve asked before, but what is going to happen to the donor after the transplant?”
She focused so much on acquiring the donor that she hadn’t thought about the aftermath. How would Dr. Pift keep them both out of danger once the transplant was completed?
“The doctor has a plausible explanation for her ‘accident’. After the transplant, he will also monitor her recovery, but you will be in different wings of the building. She will have no suspicions of foul play.” Observing Alesha’s apprehension, she added, “Dr. Pift has performed dozens of these transplants and, so far, and they’ve been quite successful. You needn’t worry. You’re in the best possible hands.”
Alesha nodded and tried to relax. No backing out now. She watched the second hand on the clock circle around as Clara started an I.V. on her arm and began adhering the electrode patches for the cardiac monitor to her chest. Once she was situated in the hospital bed, Clara placed a mask over her face and told her to count backwards from 20.
The scream was so distant, she thought she must already be dreaming.
Daily, she downed as much anti-rejection medication as she did food. Gengraf, Prednisone, Cytovene ... the names blurred together in a chemical cocktail designed to keep her body from killing the new flesh sutured above her scalp. The only medication she enjoyed was the morphine they administered in even higher doses to dull the crippling headaches. But her discomfort was outweighed by excitement.
Ten days after the transplant, Dr. Pift removed the bandages. Sitting with her back to a mirror, she kept her eyes closed tight. For the first time in her life, she would see herself with a full head of hair. Even as she faced her reflection, she didn’t peek.
The copper curls were now just coarse waves, the color dull and greasy. She smiled regardless. They’d been wrapped in a turban of gauze for a week and a half—of course they were grimy. All that mattered was they were hers now. She met Dr. Pift’s eyes in the mirror. He frowned.
“Is something wrong?”
He didn’t answer, just circled around to inspect her scalp. His fingertip, though barely grazing the incision, felt like a razorblade slicing her open.
“Clara, take some fresh samples and send them to the lab, please.”
He turned to leave as she grabbed his arm. “What’s wrong? I see it in your eyes. What’s happening?”
“Most likely nothing, but I need to make sure you’re not in the early stages of rejection.” As the color drained from her face, he continued, “Try not to be alarmed. Almost all transplants try to reject in the beginning. I expected this
would happen. We will adjust your medications and monitor you, but I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
She faced her reflection, this time staring closely at the incision, practically indistinguishable from her new hairline. She almost didn’t notice the slight puckering or the yellow stain that seemed to seep onto her forehead. Gently, she touched the ruched seam, wincing at the sharp sensation that squeezed her skull. Then, she noticed the faint odor of decomposition that reminded her of two-week-old road kill.
Deep down, she’d known the transplant was failing. The odor that grew stronger every day, the puckering that deepened around the edges of the incision ... to make matters worse, some of the hair started falling out. Dr. Pift upped the dosages of steroids, readjusted the Gengraf, but still it continued. Her head was decaying.
“You’re in acute transplant rejection,” Dr. Pift confirmed. “The only real remedy is another transplant.”
“This is my hair, Dr. Pift.” Alesha panicked. “I don’t want another transplant. There has to be a way to save it!”
He shook his head, his eyes answering before he said, “Not with medicine, I’m afraid.”
Dr. Laurie Middleton looked nothing like the woman Alesha pictured when she made the appointment. She answered the door with a tight smile and perfectly coifed hair, dressed in a floral sweater and tweed skirt. Alesha expected tribal gowns, and perhaps a bone piercing or two.
Dr. Laurie Middleton was a shaman.
As per the agreement, she avoided hospitals and doctors. But, after a few holistic attempts ended in heightening infections, she decided to look for a less conventional solution. Dr. Pift suggested she see a different sort of healer. “Sometimes, such a crisis can only be cured with faith,” he said. During a brief telephone interview, Dr. Middleton agreed to meet with Alesha in her home office.
After a cool handshake, Dr. Middleton led her to the study. “Please have a seat while I ready the room for the ceremony.”
Alesha watched Dr. Middleton place stone bowls filled with branches on either side of a chaise. As she lit the stems, they smoldered and caught flame, swirling pungent smoke into the air. She then turned on a small stereo resting on a nearby shelf. The faint sound of drums whispered through speakers mounted in the corners of the room. Once her ministrations were complete, she settled on the chaise and smiled at Alesha, then closed her eyes. They sat in silence for several minutes.
When Alesha softly cleared her throat to speak, Dr. Middleton’s eyes opened and she smiled again. Her voice was calm, like she could drift off to sleep mid-sentence. “I sense you are missing a part of yourself. Something has been lost, and until it is brought back, you cannot be whole. As a shamanic healer, I can do several things to alleviate such situations. But, in your case, what would serve you best is what we call a soul retrieval.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Alesha shrugged. “And I’m not all that religious. What am I supposed to do?”
“All I need is for you to remain quiet and open your mind. I will do the rest. This will require a spiritual journey, during which I will slip into a trance. Once I emerge, your healing will be complete. There may be instructions for your aftercare, but I will explain them to you before you leave. Do you have any questions before we begin?”
“How will I know it worked?”
“My dear, you will know without words. You will feel it,” Dr. Middleton laid a hand over her heart, “In here.”
“But I’m not sick there ...”
The doctor shot her a look that could quiet baying wolves. “When you are sick, you always need healing in your center. Now, if there are no other questions, are you ready to begin?”
“Sure, I guess,” Alesha mumbled.
Dr. Middleton pulled her legs onto the chaise and reclined. Her eyes closed as she hummed a tuneless melody. The humming faded into deep breaths while the woman relaxed, her chest rising slow and even.
Alesha watched the woman sleep, her own eyes growing heavy. Between the acrid smoke and the soft, deliberate rhythm of ceremonial drums, it took all her will power not to doze off. She studied her nails, tried to read the titles of the books on the shelves, even tried to make a song from the drumbeats. But despite her most valiant efforts, sleep took over.
She hovered in a black abyss, her body numb and heavy, like an ocean buoy suspended mid-air, waiting to hit the waves below. When she opened her mouth, she couldn’t speak. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t even gasp. Confusion and panic gripped her, but, oddly enough, she didn’t feel her heart race.
An electric current ripped through her. As it did, she was submerged into light and sound. Chills washed over her as she awakened, disoriented and overcome with vertigo. Where am I?
A quick glance around did nothing to ease her growing anxiety. She sat on an unfamiliar couch in a stranger’s living room. How did I get here? Shouldn’t I still be at Dr. Pift’s clinic?
Then she remembered. I’m at the shaman’s house.
But the room didn’t resemble the traditional décor of Dr. Middleton’s home. A widescreen television hung on a far wall, the furnishings pristine and contemporary. Various polished picture frames on the end tables held snapshots of people she’d never met. She searched the room for anything that would jog her memory, but nothing rang a bell. She ran her hand over a lush velveteen sofa cushion.
Come to think of it, she’d seen this couch before. But where?
The room was immaculate ... except for the dozens of empty yogurt cups that littered the floor.
Alesha’s stomach rolled. She hated yogurt. The vile sour taste, the thick creaminess ... she couldn’t eat as much as a spoonful without gagging. And yet, here she sat, surrounded by empty containers. Including an empty cup in her left hand with a spoon resting inside. It had been licked clean.
Repulsed, she threw the cup down and stood slowly, immediately noticing a pain in her joints, similar to the aches she felt after rigorous exercising. Groaning, she dragged her feet through the sea of Dannons and Yoplaits, looking for her purse and her bottle of painkillers. No sign of either.
She located a telephone in the kitchen and dialed Dr. Pift’s number. As she waited for an answer, she caught sight of her reflection across a polished refrigerator door panel. Her hair looked fantastic. So did her clothes.
Too bad they weren’t hers.
Dr. Pift answered before she had time to end the call. “Yes?”
“Dr. Pift? It’s Alesh—”
“Where the hell have you been?” He roared in her ear. “Have you broken our agreement?”
His reaction sent another chill through her. “What do you mean? I had the appointment with the Dr. Middleton, remember? I think I fell asleep.”
“You’ve been asleep for three weeks? You need to come back to the clinic so I can monitor your recovery. Being off your anti-rejection meds that long will surely create dire complications.”
Alesha couldn’t speak; she was numb with shock. Her voice cracked when she found it again. “I’ve been gone for three weeks?”
His voice was tense, like he was speaking through clenched teeth. “Miss Aldopita, get back here at once. Your very life could be in jeopardy.”
She ran a finger gingerly under her hairline, waiting for the jolt of pain. Nothing. She didn’t feel as much as a scar. “Of course, doctor. I’m leaving here now. I should be there shortly.”
If I can figure out where “here” is ...
She explored the rest of the apartment, finding a bathroom and bedroom. No sign of any of her belongings, other than her purse, which lay on top of a tall bureau. Reaching for it, her eyes fell on a picture in a small frame nearby.
Copper Curls. Or, as the diploma framed and displayed over the bureau clearly stated, Andrea Aimes.
“Oh god, I have to get out of here!” She looked around, making sure she hadn’t left any other personal belongings behind. If Copper discovered her in the apartment, wearing the stolen hair, she’d have Alesha behind bars faster than she could blink. Hopefu
lly she was still under treatment at the clinic.
Which is where I haven’t been for the past three weeks.
She checked the bathroom once more, making sure there were no traces of her visit. Then a dark puddle in the tub caught her attention. Jerking back the shower curtain, she almost screamed. The clothes she’d worn to Dr. Middleton’s house were heaped in the basin. Soaked in blood.
Sinking to the floor, she cradled her head in her hands, fighting a wave of nausea.
I’m in Copper’s apartment, wearing her clothes, because my clothes are ruined. Why can’t I remember the past three weeks? What happened at Dr. Middleton’s house?
Dr. Pift might not have answers, but certainly he knew where Copper was. That little bit of knowledge was better than nothing. She would get back and let him finish her therapy so she could begin her new life.
A mile from the apartment, with her purse and a black garbage bag full of bloodied garments clutched in her arms, it occurred to her—for all the blood on her clothes, there was no blood anywhere else in the apartment.
Dr. Pift regarded her as if she’d laid a golden egg. Once he determined that her scalp had completely healed without the aid of repression therapy, he sat at his desk, looking dumbfounded.
She would have been amused were she not scared shitless.
“Dr. Pift, is my donor still in the clinic?”
“No.” He looked away, busying himself with desk papers, and said, “I didn’t want to tell you, but I suppose you should know.”
“Know what?”
“While you were being prepped for your surgery, there was a bit of an accident. A freakish mishap, you might say. Your donor woke unexpectedly as we were getting her ready for the procedure. A struggle ensued before we could sedate her, and she thrashed about so much, her neck snapped.” Both his face and voice conveyed no emotion. “It was an unfortunate situation, and by that time you were already under sedation. Don’t worry though. We incinerated her remains. Neither you nor I will be implicated if she is reported missing.”