Girl in the Mirror (8 page)

“Agreed,” he replied. “If you promise not to hound me about my decision. After that—” he placed the papers firmly back into his father’s hand “—we will talk again.”

His father turned his head and studied Michael, staring intensely into his eyes, as though to catch a loophole. Whatever he found must have satisfied him because he nodded, squinting, and at last accepted back the papers.

“Starting when?”

“March. In time to complete orders for the spring.”

“Not soon enough! I begin in two weeks.”

“Mail me the materials. I’ll do it from Chicago.”

A loud, boisterous laugh burst from Luis’s lips and he wrapped his arm around his son’s shoulder, squeezing possessively. “How can I lose?” he asked in a voice gruff with emotion. “I know my land. She is like a fine, fat woman. All fertile and sweet smelling. You will plant your seeds in her and she will make you hers. See? I know you, too. You are my son. You are machismo. You will never turn your back on her that you love most.”

In Chicago, Ascension Church was ablaze in light and song as the jubilant congregation celebrated midnight mass. Though it was packed to the rafters, Charlotte and Helena sat in the reserved section near the altar, a boon for spending the day decorating the church. Charlotte looked with a proprietary air at the yards of crisp white linen trimmed in green embroidery, the six handsome balsams twinkling in white lights, and clustered around them the scores of fresh red and white poinsettias.

“Beautiful,” Charlotte sighed.

Father Frank offered them a wink of approval from the altar.

Charlotte’s heart was filled with thoughts of beauty this Christmas. Dr. Harmon had presented his final plan and, though she was shaken, the composite of her new face was so beautiful he could have wrapped and tied it up with a bow as a gift.

She’d stared at the sketches. “I can’t believe that will be me,” she’d said, breathless.

“Believe it. I can make it happen.”

“But the nose. You’ve changed it. It isn’t mine.”

“It will be,” he replied, persistent.

“I don’t know. My mother, she won’t like to see me so changed.”

“How do
you
like it, Miss Godowski?”

Her gaze lingered on the beautiful curve of the jaw. “I love it.” She then slipped a piece of paper over the face so only the eyes were left showing. “Is it still me?”

“Of course it is. And how clever of you to look at the eyes, Charlotte. That, my dear, reveals the real you.”

I wonder, she thought to herself. Yet, she had agreed to the design, refraining from telling her mother about the nose. Her new face was her gift to herself. Her gift to her mother was her new job. Dr. Harmon had kindly offered her the position of accountant for his practice at a handsome salary. Now her mother wouldn’t have to worry about the money coming in. She’d surprise her mother with the news when they broke the fast after mass tonight.

When the choir began singing “Joy to the World,” Charlotte joined in, singing loudly, joyfully—meaning every word. Her world was beautiful, full of joy and hope. How could her heart contain such happiness?

T
hree months later, Dr. Harmon methodically removed the bandages that wrapped Charlotte’s head while she lay motionless upon the hospital bed. Like a high priest and a mummy, she thought, staring out from an open patch. Three men and a woman in their late twenties, cloaked in white jackets and clutching clipboards, all inched closer, their eyes focused on her face. They were residents in cosmetic surgery, Dr. Harmon had told her. Her case was particularly interesting, and over the past few weeks, they’d stopped by frequently to check her vitals, ask the same questions and read over her chart. Dr. Harmon allowed no one but himself to direct this case. Charlotte sensed from the residents and nurses that he’d taken an especially keen interest in her case, and within the walls of Six West, where Dr. Harmon ruled, she felt like a queen.

Two weeks had passed since her operation, weeks of desperate arguments with her mother. Weeks of praying that the operation would be a success while beating her breast in worry if she even had a right to pray, now that she’d “defied God’s will,” as her mother claimed. Charlotte felt again the prickly surge of resentment. She was
not
her mother’s sacrificial lamb. How easy for her mother to condemn her decision. Helena had a pretty face.

Charlotte didn’t blame her mother, however. Charlotte was simply past the point of being able to accept her ugliness as God’s will. To her mind, God gave her this life and it was up to her to make the best of it.

Well, she thought, tapping her foot against the bed’s cool metal rail in a dance of anxiety. This was the moment of truth. There would be no more waiting. As the bandages were unwound and gathered from around her head, she could smell the oddly sweet, pungent odor of dried blood and her stitches. Loosened from the constraints, her jaw throbbed, the nerve endings tingled.

“Just a few more…” muttered Dr. Harmon. The seconds seemed an eternity as his delicate fingers twisted and unwrapped the bandages.

When at last the final layer was removed, Charlotte’s face felt tingly and raw, exposed to the elements. Dr. Harmon examined her, touching her face with confidence. It stung where his fingers met skin. When he was done he cradled her head in his nimble hands and studied her with his pale, piercing eyes. Time seemed to stand still as she searched his face for some sign of his approval or distress.

“Are you ready?” he asked at length. His tone was fatherly.

She couldn’t speak. Very gingerly she brought her fingers to her jaw and palpated the soft flesh. It felt squishy and swollen, like a partially deflated balloon. Yet even in its fullness she detected the unmistakable curve of a jaw and, traveling farther forward, a jutting of bone that could only be a chin.

She glanced at her mother. Helena was peering down, her eyes squinting and her mouth working silently. She looked appalled.

Charlotte swallowed hard. Her throat was as dry as a desert.

“Mirror?” Dr. Harmon asked a nurse.

It took a Herculean effort just to sit up. The room spun and nausea rose in her throat, but she fought it back down, determined to sit. In an odd way, she felt as though she were about to meet someone new. Someone important.

“Now, remember that you will still see swelling and some bruising. That will be with you for quite a while, but gradually your face will appear normal.”

She felt alarmed. He sounded very tense. Had something gone wrong? She tried to speak, but the incisions inside of her mouth and the swelling made it hard to move her lips. “Normal?” she mumbled.

A resident piped in. “He filled it in nicely, but it’s so early yet.”

“What do I look like?”

“Why don’t you see for yourself.” Dr. Harmon handed Charlotte the mirror.

Charlotte held the mirror in her hands for a long moment, gathering her courage. Then she manipulated the glass, peeking first at her forehead and eyes, old friends that remained unchanged. Then slowly, hesitatingly, she tilted the mirror.

“Charlotte?” Dr. Harmon moved closer. “Are you all right?”

No, she wasn’t all right! She was afraid. Terrified. Charlotte set down the mirror with agonizing slowness and laid back upon the bed in degrees, closing her eyes. The world was spiraling. She felt as though her spirit had risen from her body and floated in the air, into some other dimension, like some people described near-death experiences. Hadn’t she died in a way? Wasn’t she some wandering spirit?

For there was no doubt, the Charlotte she had been was no more.

Helena huddled beside her daughter’s bed, her fingers speeding over the rosary beads and her lips moving silently in prayer. The hour was late; the lights were lowered to a dim green in the small, bare hospital room. Someone was moaning in the next room, a low keening sound that failed to arouse the nurses, who were busy preparing for the eleven o’clock shift change. They made eerie shadows on the wall as they passed the door. Throughout Six West there was an uneasy loneliness in the night quiet. Patients and nurses alike shared an unspoken understanding. Everyone was simply trying to get through the night.

Helena shivered and returned to her prayers. She hated hospitals, would rather die in the streets than return to one. Outside the room a pair of nurses were discussing Charlotte’s case: bandages off today…swelling normal…Percodan for pain on demand. After the medical report, the tone lowered to personal mumbles. Helena’s mouth twisted in annoyance. No doubt they were nattering about Charlotte’s transformation. Everyone on the floor was talking about it.

Helena shifted her weight, showing the nurses her back, and brought her face within inches of Charlotte’s. Where was her daughter with this new face? She bunched her fist. Who had the right to change it? Certainly not that pompous Dr. Harmon. Guilt rose up like a wave as she recalled her consultation with the doctor prior to surgery. Helena winced, recalling his barely concealed fury.

“Why haven’t you pursued surgery for Charlotte before now?” he had asked her, his eyes glaring and his tone bordering on an accusation. “These techniques are not new. Certainly she could have avoided years of—” He waved his hand, searching for a word that could possibly describe what Charlotte had endured. No word sufficed. He set his mouth in a grim line.

She replied with the usual simpered excuses: no money, no insurance, ignorance. Dr. Harmon had shook his head with pity.

“True, yes, it was all true,” Helena told the sleeping Charlotte, clutching the thin mint green hospital blanket. Helena’s reserve crumbled and she lowered her head upon her daughter’s hand. How effective these little truths were in obscuring the one big Truth. So much more effective than lies. But God knew, she scolded herself. God knew that she was a sinner. And the scourge for her sin had passed on to her daughter.

“The sin was mine, Lord, not hers,” she prayed. “The blame belongs to me. Perhaps I should have told her. But how?” Her thin fingers, worn dry and brittle by cleaning solvents, spread out to cover her eyes as she wept. “My sin…my sin…” she mumbled. “Mine and Frederic’s, so long ago.”

The first moment Helena saw Frederic Walenski, she knew she loved him. At twenty-six, unmarried and isolated on her family’s farm, her prospects were slim. Life was hard in the late 1960s in Poland. Food prices were rising and salaries were falling. The economy was in an uproar. Helena remembered those years as a time when they struggled just to keep their livestock and family fed.

Her village sat at the edge of the Carpathian Mountain range, and on weekends young men and women from the cities would flock to the mountains to hike. Helena wasn’t flirtatious, nor did she seek out the attention of the young men who strolled through the village. This Frederic, however, was different. He was more stocky than tall, with thick blond hair and large, insolent eyes. He had a bearing that bordered on haughtiness, that spoke to her of the city, of privilege and of a worldliness unknown in her provincial town. She spotted him while he hovered with his friends over a map, backpacks tilting from their shoulders. While the others pointed and argued what route to take, this handsome man glanced her way. Helena, shocked by her own boldness, didn’t avert her eyes. He returned a knowing glance and a slow, simmering smile. Her blood roiled. She felt a rush like she’d only read about in books.

Falling in love was easy in the mountains. The air high up was thin and sweet, far from the haze of industrial smoke and revolutionary politics that hovered over the cities. Every weekend Frederic returned to court her, and eventually, Helena did not refuse his kisses. Frederic was so different from anyone she had ever met. Unlike herself, who took the vocational tract in school, Frederic was educated at the University of Warsaw. Where she was politically passive, he was passionately anti-Communist, a rebel who allied himself with protesting students and political organizers who resented Communist attacks on the church and intellectual freedom. On summer nights after making love on the fresh hay of her father’s barn, he wooed her with promises of a golden future, together, in a new Poland. By December, when they sat together near the warmth of the hearth, he murmured in her ear that he loved her. Helena, happier than she’d ever been in her life, believed everything.

Then late December of 1970 the dream went wrong. She didn’t know exactly what had happened. Frederic’s voice was frantic, and his explanations were garbled and rushed during his last phone call from Warsaw. Something about worker riots over food prices, gunshots and a bomb. He had to leave, quickly. His family had connections and could whisk him out.

“I must go, Helena,” he’d said urgently, while her hands shook on the telephone. “I must. Now, or risk prison.”

“No! No, Frederic, you can’t go.”

“I’ll send for you in America. As soon as I can, I will arrange it.”

Helena clutched the phone while her heart slammed against her chest. “No! I’ll come with you. I’ll leave right away.”

“Goodbye, Helena.”

There was a click and she knew he was gone.

She’d waited for him as loyally and diligently as any wife would await a husband away at war. For that’s how she saw it. They were married in their hearts, weren’t they? Each day she ran to meet the post, and each day brought a new torrent of tears to find the box empty. One month, two, and not a word came from America. Not a single postcard telling her that he had arrived safely and was waiting for her. At first she convinced herself that he was just being cautious lest the authorities track him down. As the months pushed on, however, she grew more desolate. These feeble excuses would not explain away the growing child within her belly.

“You disgrace the family!” her mother wailed when she could hide her pregnancy no longer. Devout Catholics, her family couldn’t reconcile the shame, and soon afterward, Helena was sent to the Nuns of the Holy Sacrament in Warsaw.

The nuns at the convent were kind and sympathetic to her situation. Their eyes blazed with fervor as they assured her that God would forgive her for the sin of fornication if she prayed hard, showed remorse and vowed to sin no more. During the following two months a new calm settled within, one that grew as her baby grew.

It was then that Father Oziemblowski from her village came to see her. “Good news!” he’d announced. He’d found a family that would adopt her baby. After the birth, Helena could discreetly return home and not another word would be mentioned of this unfortunate affair.

“You must trust our guidance in these matters,” Father had told her. “For your child’s sake, if not for your own.”

Helena listened with eyes wide and meek, but in her heart, she balked. Give up Frederic’s child? Unthinkable! Her child was
not
a bastard. If Frederic was here, they would be married, in a church, blessed by God. Maternal instincts flared, making her cunning.

As soon as she found an unsupervised moment, she sneaked from the cloister and took the bus to the old section of the city where a row of flat-faced, four-story buildings in stages of disrepair stood shoulder to shoulder before a park, like ancient grande dames sitting in the splendid shade of trees in full bloom. The Walenski apartment was in one of the larger buildings with a grand entryway. After a brief wait, a stylish stocky woman answered the door. Immediately, Helena recognized the same regal haughtiness she had once admired in Frederic, and the same strong, aristocratic nose.

“I am a friend of Frederic’s,” Helena said, standing tall in her shabby, oversize raincoat. “I was hoping you could help me find him. It’s urgent.”

Mrs. Walenski was on guard. “I don’t know where my son is.”

“Wait!” Helena pushed her hand against the closing door. “Just one moment. What I have to tell you should be spoken in private.”

Mrs. Walenski’s eyes narrowed in scrutiny, and Helena read dismissal in their flinty coldness. “I don’t allow strangers inside my home. What is this about?”

Standing on the front stoop, Helena stubbornly held her ground. She unbuttoned her long coat and slipped it open, revealing the rounded belly of a woman in her fifth month of pregnancy. She felt tawdry beside the elegance of her surroundings, ashamed of her predicament, but for her child’s sake, for Frederic’s, she would not back down.

“I am carrying Frederic’s child.”

“You are lying,” Mrs. Walenski whispered, quickly ushering Helena into the foyer and closing the door. “Do you think you are the first girl to try to trap my son in such a vile manner?”