He led Steve to the small office in the rear of the lab. The space was small and shelves were stacked with papers, books, and journals. Boxes of more papers were stacked on the floor.
“Please forgive the mess. We’re in the process of moving to a new location.” Bowers moved to a computer behind the desk. “It’s been some years, so give me a moment.”
Steve stood and watched as Bowers ran his fingers across the keyboard. A minute later he muttered, “Ah- ha.” He clicked and tapped keys. “Here we are.” He swiveled his monitor toward Steve. “In case you’re interested, she was an ectomesomorph—the so-called heart-shaped face, wide at the cheeks and an angled jaw that might be delicately pointed or slightly rounded at the base. There’s no way of telling exactly, given the limitations, but this is what we came up with.”
Steve felt as if he had stuck his finger into an electric light socket. On the screen was a three-dimensional head of Dana.
80
Diane Hewson.
The name still ignited sparks in his brain. She came in hoping to remove years from her face with a brow lift. While not perfect, her face was attractive. But as that first consultation progressed, he had all he could do to contain his distraction from the possibilities.
As she spoke, the muscular changes in her face flickered across the template at the core of his brain, making coincidences that nearly took his breath away. He tried to concentrate on her words, keeping his own face neutral, but in his mind he was making corrections until he was certain that the dead could rise. That Jesus answered prayers.
She was about to turn forty and a brow lift would be a present to herself. A favorite aunt had recently died and left her money so she could afford the indulgence. She had come to him because she had caught a television interview on the new Botox treatments that were becoming the rage.
As his mind tripped over the necessary procedures, another sensation began to distract him—a sensation that, like the venom of a bee sting, starts off as sharp pain and then subsides into a strangely satisfying itch.
So as not to overwhelm her with other options, he explained what a brow lift could accomplish and showed her before-and-after images of women who had elected to do the procedure. Naturally, she was impressed at the improvements—the elimination of droopy eyebrows, forehead lines, and frown creases—all of which took years off the faces.
During a second appointment he raised speculations of other procedures, showing computer afterimages of her with a brow lift, upper lip enhancement, and chin implants because her own was too short. He even showed her what rhinoplasty would do, gently turning up the sales pitch on the benefits of enhanced facial aesthetics. He studied her as she considered the potential, eyes lighting up at the makeover image on the monitor—an image that sent heat pulses through his body. It was Lila who stared back at them.
She joked that the software was the computer equivalent of Mr. Potato Head for cosmetic surgeons. He liked that and chuckled.
“This could invite women to ask for a famous face,” she said. “You know, turn me into Julia Roberts or Christie Brinkley.”
He smiled and said he often got famous face requests. And thought how the face on the monitor was famous, though only to him. A face to die for.
“And what would all of this cost?”
He had to bite his tongue from saying he’d do it pro bono. She had come in for a three-thousand-dollar procedure and was now considering ten thousand in extras. Were he to offer a large discount, she’d wonder why. So he itemized each procedure on the high side then explained, “If you had it done in one session, you would save on having to set different surgical teams, anesthesia, OR costs. I think it could be done for around five thousand.”
“My, my, that’s very enticing.”
“What exactly would you do?” she asked, staring at the monitor image.
He explained that she would be under general anesthesia and that the total operation would take between three and four hours. “Brow lift incisions would be done in layers with deep subcuticular stitches that would eventually be absorbed by the body. At the same time, we’d plump up the upper lip with injections of collagen.” He went on to explain the reconstruction of her nose. “For the chin, we would insert silicone implants through a small incision under the chin. After three or four weeks, bruising would be gone and most of the visible swelling.”
Then he tipped his head toward the image on the monitor. “And the results, I think you’d agree, would be”— he had to tame his wording—“very satisfying, I believe.”
The expression on Diane Hewson’s face told him that she liked what she heard and saw, but she said that she wanted to think it over. The next day she called to say she would have all the procedures done but the chin implant. She just didn’t think she needed that. He wanted to tell her that she was dead wrong, but tempered his reaction by explaining that it was a short and common procedure that would bring balance to her face and eliminate any appearance of a fleshy neck. But she refused. He buried his disappointment by saying the timing was perfect because he could take her the following Tuesday because he had just gotten a cancellation. She said fine, and when he got off the phone he was trembling.
She had come in looking like Lila’s homely older sister and in a month could pass for her double with a too- short chin.
The operation went well, and she rigorously followed recovery procedures. She kept her head elevated for forty-eight hours; she changed the dressing regularly. She took care not to bump herself or do strenuous maneuvers, and not to expose herself to the sun. She used frozen peas as a compress for the swelling.
Over the next month he saw her at various stages of her recovery. And in spite of her weak chin, the resemblance began to take form in his brain.
And with it an ember of an idea that began to glow brighter each day.
Over the weeks it increased in intensity, and he blew on it like a man on a mission—a mission that across the days and nights evolved into obsession as the growing resemblance stirred up torturous longings, as well as the hurt, grief, and rage: all the hot muck that pressed to the surface.
For days he went about his work having imaginary conversations with this woman—driving in a convertible, going to the beach, having dinner at a fancy restaurant, listening to her laughter. He also taunted himself with images of her nude and with a single black lace-top stocking.
And there were the dreams.
One night she showed up at his bedside in her baby dolls and caressed him while he cried because he didn’t want her to go away. But she said she had to and kissed him on the mouth then wrapped the stocking around her neck and hanged herself. He woke up with his chest aching, his pillow damp, and his head splitting with pain. Another night he dreamt of her peeling off a black stocking and twirling it across her naked body. He felt the arousal, and reached for it like a lure, but suddenly it grew into an entangling thicket that enclosed him and threatened to choke off his air. Thankfully, he shook himself awake. But for the better part of the day, he went about his appointments feeling heavy with guilt.
At first, he didn’t know exactly what his mission was—just some vague notion that made him want to see Diane Hewson. She was single and so was he. So in a moment of bravado following her final checkup he said that he had two tickets to a Boston Symphony concert and would love to have her join him. And because she was already in town on business, they met at Symphony Hall. After that they went for a drink at a quiet bar. She said she had a fine time and so did he.
Then the plan took on form and substance.
Weeks followed, as did his growing need for gratification and release. Although he did not quite divine the kind of promise it would hold, he began to think cunning thoughts while studying Lila’s photo album—the nudes, the drawings, the ads, and publicity posters—and sniffing her clothes and putting her lock of hair to his lips.
