The Botox Diaries (33 page)

And with that, New York’s premier boob specialist launches into her lecture, covering all the bases—size and shape, silicone versus saline, nerve damage and nipple numbness. I’m sure this particular form of torture is illegal under the Geneva Convention, but Lucy doesn’t blanch. It’s all in the name of beauty. No Pain, No Gain. Might as well tattoo that on Lucy’s butt. Which is what I’m afraid we’ll be correcting next.

“So,” says Dr. Roget, encouraged by Lucy’s continuous nods of agreement, “one important question. What level of pertness are you going for?”

“How many levels of pertness are there?” asks Lucy, scribbling down notes and hanging on the doctor’s every word.

“Many,” says the doctor, leading us over to her computer screen and hitting a few keys. A 3-D image of Lucy’s torso, scanned in from a photo one of the nurses took earlier, pops up. With a few keystrokes, the doctor enlarges Lucy’s breasts, changing her from pretty producer to bodacious babe. Two strokes later, and Lucy looks like Betty Boop. Much more of this and those torpedoes are going to explode.

“Isn’t this equipment incredible?” asks the doctor proudly. I’m not sure if she’s talking about the computer or Lucy’s potential bazooms. “Anyway, your choice on size. What will it be?” Dr. Roget’s so casual, she could be asking Lucy to pick out a new mascara.

Lucy takes a moment. “Second one,” she says conservatively. The first middle-of-the-road choice I’ve ever seen her make.

“Done,” says Dr. Roget, pulling a photo album off the shelf. “Now take a look at some of our before-and-after shots. I think you’ll be amazed at the changes. We get some impressive results.”

Lucy and I flip through the pages, oohing and aahing as if it were J. Lo’s wedding album. Whichever one. Frankly, none of the women in the pictures look that transformed—except in the “before” photos, the lighting is less flattering. And in the post-surgery shots, the underwear is a lot nicer. But Lucy sees magic, not good lighting.

“It
is
amazing,” Lucy says, transfixed. “Exactly what I imagined.”

She’s ready to sign on the dotted line, and Dr. Roget, ready to close the deal, flicks to the calendar on her Microsoft Outlook.

“You’re in luck. Somebody just canceled her surgery,” says Dr.
Roget, clicking through her schedule. “How’s nine a.m. four months from yesterday work out for you?”

“Lucy’s busy,” I jump in. “Not a good day for her. She already has a hair appointment. And an eyebrow shaping.”

Lucy glares at me. But I take my responsibilities seriously. Time for me to speak up. In quick succession, I rat-a-tat my questions. Postoperative pain? Can be lots of it. Scarring? Might happen. Asymmetry? Ditto. Or not ditto. Your breasts may not end up the same size. Dr. Roget seems to be getting annoyed with being treated like a hostile witness on
Law & Order
, but I don’t mind because when I glance over at Lucy, she seems to be coming slightly to her senses.

“And what about hardness?” I ask Dr. Roget. “I’ve heard implants can make your breasts feel unnatural.”

“Not really a worry. Happens sometimes. But don’t even think about it,” she says, lightly tossing off my concern.

“I don’t know how you could do something like this to your body without knowing what it will feel like,” I say, shaking my head. “I wouldn’t even buy a peach without squeezing it first.”

“Well then come on. Squeeze them,” Dr. Roget challenges, pulling down her stretchy V-neck shirt and lacy La Perla bra in one swift motion. Her breasts pop forward. Wow. Walking advertisement for her own work. But wait a minute here. Can’t be her own work. If Lucy were smart, she’d ask for the name of Dr. Roget’s plastic surgeon.

But okay, if she wants me to squeeze, I’m there. I’m not shy. And this is all in the name of medical research. I reach across the desk and grab a handful of breast. First lightly and then not so lightly.

“Lucy, come try it!” I say.

But Lucy, now pale, is glued to her chair.

“Because the point I’d like to make,” I say, turning into the senior physician at attending rounds, “is that even breasts that look this good can have some subcutaneous scarring.” I’m good. Very good. All those nights scrolling through WebMD.com have paid off. “At first squeeze, the breast may feel normal. But even a baby would know the difference. Especially a baby.”

“I’m not having any more babies,” Lucy says, finally able to speak.

“A devoted husband—one who’s loved you for twenty years, for example—would be able to tell. And wouldn’t like it. And even a self-absorbed lover would notice and object.”

“Unless his big thrill came from showing you off in a low-cut Versace at Spago in Beverly Hills,” Lucy says. I’m not sure if that’s a pro or con.

“I don’t know what you’re possibly feeling,” says Dr. Roget, now squeezing her own breasts vigorously, as if she’s searching for a misplaced earring in there. “They feel fabulous to me. I don’t know what all the commotion’s about.”

“That’s because you’ve been doing this so long you don’t even know what natural feels like anymore. Here, feel mine.”

“No thank you. I only touch people who’ve made an appointment,” says Dr. Roget, snapping her shirt back up. “If you have any more questions,” she says to Lucy as she stamps out of the room, “feel free to come back. Without your friend.”

“I’M HAVING
a mother-in-law problem,” Lucy complains, as we sit down at a cracked red plastic booth at Dell’s dingy diner. My feet stick to the gummy green-and-black linoleum floor and I flip the selection chart on the tableside jukebox, last updated with Nancy Sinatra’s “These Boots Were Made for Walkin’.” Which still passes as popular music in Pine Hills.

I stare into my watery cup of coffee and dump in two packs of Equal, thinking it might mask the bitter taste. Before I get to Lucy’s mother-in-law, there’s a more pressing issue.

“Why are we at Dell’s again?” I ask.

“Because I was hungry,” says Lucy. Who, best I can tell, does nothing but eat these days.

She calls the waitress over and orders blueberry pie à la mode. “Don’t give me one of those skimpy pieces,” she says, getting up to point out the slice she wants under the plastic-domed pie plate on the counter. “And I need a few packages of Splenda, too.” She walks back to the booth and slides in.

“I don’t get it,” I say, sipping carefully at my coffee. Didn’t need to bother. Dell’s always serves it lukewarm. “Why do you need Splenda when the blueberry pie is already five thousand calories?”

“Why make it worse?” asks Lucy blithely. She contemplates the piece of pie that the waitress has now plunked down in front of her. Dell’s pastries are made strictly from canned fruit and cornstarch, which doesn’t make them land lightly on the table—or the stomach.

Lucy digs in with gusto and swallows hard. Not easy to get Dell’s pie down. The place has been here since 1952 and I’d guess the pie has, too. “By the way, you should stop using that Equal,” she rebukes me between bites. “Splenda is all natural. Pure sucralose.”

I have to remember to ask her where those all-natural sucralose fields are. Kennebunkport?

“What happened to your perennial diet?” I ask. “And don’t tell me Atkins has stretched the blueberries into blueberry pie. You’ve been eating everything in sight and you’re still as skinny as the Pine Hills Yellow Pages.”

“The Aggravation Diet,” Lucy says. “Eat anything you want. The pounds melt off.”

“Only you, Lucy,” I say, putting down my coffee. “Even when you’re miserable, you’re golden. Most people eat when they’re stressed and next thing they know, they end up at Lane Bryant. You get depressed and you’re still buying size fours at the Armani sample sale.”

“Size two. But the truth is, I don’t care anymore. I’ve given up. On everything.” Lucy sighs theatrically and puts down her fork. “At least that’s how I’m feeling today. I seem to bounce back and forth. One minute I’m all excited about what surprises lie ahead in a Life Without Dan. The next, I can hardly get my head off the pillow, wondering how I’ve blown everything that’s ever meant anything to me.”

“You haven’t blown it yet,” I tell her. “Messed it up a little, I’ll admit.”

“No, blown it,” says Lucy. “I told you. My mother-in-law.”

That’s right. Lucy’s mother-in-law. Not only is Lucy blessed with the Aggravation Weight-Loss gene—which is what the scientists at NIH should really be working on cloning—but she has the only mother-in-law this side of Mars who actually thinks her precious baby boy married somebody worthy of him. She and Lucy genuinely like each other. Zelda, who’s short and round and wears her salt-and-pepper
hair pulled back in a scrunchie, started one of the first women’s consciousness-raising groups in the ’60s. Now she’s raising politically astute undergrads as a tenured professor at Smith. Her book
—Women in Basket-Carrying Cultures, 1952–1974
—is a standard text in the field. She and Lucy go on twice-yearly outings to the Metropolitan Museum of Art—to see the paintings, not the gift shop. She’s proud of Lucy’s job and actually applauds her daughter-in-law’s ordering Christmas dinner from Dean & DeLuca. Not exactly my experience. The one time Jacques’ mother caught me using frozen peas instead of shelling fresh ones myself, she acted as if I were Lucrezia Borgia, poisoning the family.

“Lucy, what problem could you possibly be having with Zelda?” I ask. “She’s practically perfect.”

“I know, I adore her,” says Lucy, suddenly near tears. She pours a Splenda into her glass of ice water, stirs it with her finger and then gulps it down. I watch, mesmerized. Maybe that’s what keeps her so thin. What the heck, I’ll try it, too. I suddenly feel like a little girl at a Barbie tea party, drinking sugar water. Not even sugar water. Sugar-substitute water. This is pathetic.

I push aside the glass. “Is Zelda taking Dan’s side in this?” I ask sympathetically. “Not so surprising. She loves you, but she
is
his mother.”

“No, she’s amazing. She’s trying to be neutral. She told me that she understands what I’ve been going through. Not what I did, but what I’ve been going through. She was even the one who suggested I buy a Porsche for my midlife crisis. Or take up basket-weaving. She offered to teach me. Chapter Seven in her book.”

“Try it,” I shrug. “You’ve tried everything else. At least basket-weaving’s constructive.”

“Too late,” Lucy says, sounding anguished. “Zelda’s having a sixty-fifth birthday party this weekend. Dan’s going with the kids. He asked me not to come.”

“I don’t get it,” I say. “Sounds like Zelda would still be happy to have you.”

“She would. That’s what really hurts. Dan told me he doesn’t want me there. He said it’s a family party.”

“But you’re …” I stop, suddenly understanding what Dan meant.

“I’m not part of the family anymore,” Lucy says bluntly, tears starting to stream down her face. “How could I not be part of the family? It’s
my
family.”

I dig through my bag for a Kleenex to give her, but Lucy’s already dabbing her eyes with a neatly pressed handkerchief. Monogrammed with an “HG.” Unless that hankie came as a bonus with a magazine subscription to
House & Garden
, I’m losing patience. Lucy’s crying about her family and wiping away her tears with her lover’s handkerchief. Ironic. Metaphoric. Anthropomorphic. No, that’s something else. But so is Lucy’s behavior.

“Lucy, if you want Dan back, you’ve got to stop crying on Hunter’s shoulder,” I say.

“I’m not,” she protests.

“You’re crying into his hankie, anyway,” I say, reaching over and fingering the corner of the sodden white square. “Why would you even carry that around?”

Lucy shoves the offending handkerchief back into her pocket. “Didn’t even know I had it,” she moans.

“You need to make a choice. That’s what it means to grow up.”

“Grow up? If I have to get much older than this I’ll kill myself.”

“Nothing quite that drastic required. But tell me the truth. Is Hunter still in the picture, or just his hankie?”

“I don’t know,” she says uncertainly.

“Don’t you think Dan deserves to know that he’s your one and only? Don’t you owe him that?” I ask.

“Hunter’s never been a keeper,” Lucy says. “He was just a toy, just for fun. But what if I give him up and Dan doesn’t come back?”

“Won’t happen,” I say, though I’m not sure I completely believe it. Who knows what men will do. Even Dan.

Lucy pauses and looks seriously at me. “Dan’s going off this weekend without me. Maybe he’ll decide he likes his life better that way.
Why does he need me around? I’ve been acting kind of bitchy the last few months.”

“I’ve noticed,” I say.

“Don’t be nasty,” Lucy says, starting to cry again. “Not now when I’m so scared about everything.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, stroking her hand and trying to be comforting. “What are you scared about?”

Lucy sniffles. “Used to be I could look down the road and predict that every day would be just like the next. I thought I hated that. Now I’m terrified that I can’t see down the road at all. I don’t even know what’ll happen tomorrow.”

“What would you like to have happen?”

“I want to be happy,” Lucy says, patting away a stray tear with the back of her hand. “I want to feel like I did when I was twenty and anything seemed possible. The whole world was in front of me. One wrong decision didn’t matter because I’d get to make a million more. Every door was open. Now the only sound I hear is doors slamming shut.”

“Okay, some doors close,” I concede. “You’ll never be a ballerina. You’re not going to grab the Olympic gold for high-diving. And you’ll never be a model, unless it’s for age-defying makeup. But isn’t the upside of getting older supposed to be that you have some perspective? You know what’s important in your life. Kids. Husband. Friends. Great job. Family. And for you, a week every year at Canyon Ranch.”

“I’m so over Canyon Ranch,” Lucy says. “Next year I’m going to try kayaking down the coast of Costa Rica. Wanna come?”

“No thanks. I fall out of rowboats,” I remind her.

“That was a canoe.”