If You Only Knew
Page 49
“You do not need this,” I say firmly. “Rachel. Don’t let Adam make you feel unattractive. Is that what this is?”
“Don’t judge me,” she answers blithely, closing the minivan door. “I’m only here for a consultation.”
“You’re perfect! You’re beautiful! Rachel, you get carded when we go out! Everyone thinks I’m the older sister.”
“I’m feeling a little...frumpy, that’s all.”
“So buy some green nail polish. You don’t need anything done to yourself.”
She turns to me, and her face is unexpectedly furious. “I want to see the plastic surgeon. Okay? I thought it would be easier with you here, but if you’re going to be a pain, then leave.”
Yikes. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I love you and think you’re beautiful.”
“I know. Thank you.” She takes a deep breath, shoots me an apologetic glance. “Look. Obviously, my ego has taken a hit. I’m just...curious. My friend Elle had a little work done—”
“She had some big work done. Those things are like cannonballs.”
“—and even before this, I noticed I was looking a little tired. I’ve been thinking about it.”
“Really? Since when?”
“Jenny, I’m allowed to have thoughts without immediately picking up the phone and calling you. Are you going to be a pain here? Or are you going to be supportive?”
“Uh...supportive. Sorry. Let’s go!” I fake a smile.
Rachel has told me just about everything since finding that picture on Adam’s phone. I know about the counseling session. I know she told him to ask Emmanuelle to get transferred, and he said he couldn’t do that. I know she called AT&T, Verizon and Comcast to see if he has another phone. I know she broke their wedding picture, and got it reframed. I know she got a clean result from the STD panel. I know she deliberately oversalted his dinner the other night, and he ate it anyway.
But she’s never once brought up plastic surgery.
The doctor’s office is as dark as a cave. The windows are frosted, and there’s a code to punch in. It feels more like we’re going into witness protection than a doctor’s office. When my eyes adjust, I can see that it’s actually quite lovely in here. There’s a huge dispenser of lemon-and-cucumber water and some hot water for tea, several tasteful black couches and cube end tables. Birdsong twitters from unseen speakers. A faux waterfall gushes behind the reception desk, reminding me that I had three cups of coffee this morning.
Rachel whispers to the receptionist, her shoulders tight, smiling hard to counter her shyness...and maybe the humiliation she feels at being here. It’s hardly original, is it? Husband has affair, wife decides to get some work done. Except Rachel isn’t the plastic-surgery type.
The soft-voiced and beautiful young woman checks Rachel in, and we take our seats. “Hi,” says a woman next to me. I recoil, then scratch my nose to cover. She looks like someone took a baseball bat to her. Her face is swollen and plum-colored; her hair is matted. She’s wearing pajamas and slippers. One of her feet is hugely swollen, and tubes snake out of the bottom of her shirt.
“Hi,” I say, remembering to speak. Rach is staring at a Martha Stewart magazine, pretending to be invisible.
“Are you getting work done?” the poor, poor woman asks.
“No! Nope. Not yet. Maybe. Someday. I don’t know.”
“Well, Dr. L. is great,” she says. “I’m just sorry I waited this long.”
“How...how long?”
“I should’ve done this when I was sixty,” she says, ventriloquist-like in her ability not to move her lips. “I’m eighty-two, can you believe it?”
She’s actually ageless, given that her purple face is stretched tighter than an eggplant.
“So what did you have done?” I ask, unable to help myself.
“The whole package,” she says. “Got my eyelids done, some Botox, a little filler, chin implant, cheekbones, got my lips done, neck lift, breast implants, tummy tuck, ass lift.”
“Oh...wow,” I whisper. I can’t imagine the pain—let alone the cost—of all those procedures. I think she might be smiling at me. Or grimacing. An ass lift? At eighty-two? I plan on proudly letting my ass drag when I’m eighty-two. I sure as hell wouldn’t—
“I say go for the whole package. No need in coming back ten or twelve times. Just have them knock you out and go for it.”
“So are you in a lot of pain?” I ask my new best friend.
“Agonizing,” she answers. “I won’t lie. I was hit by a car when I was sixteen. This hurts more. I was begging for morphine the first three weeks.”
My eyelids flutter. I’ve never been brave with pain.
“Rachel Carver?” a nurse calls.
Rach puts down the magazine and stands up, running her hands over the front of her dress.
I scramble up after her. “Did you hear that?” I hiss. “She was begging for morphine!”
“Can you just relax, please?”
“Rachel, that woman looked like she was attacked by gorillas.”
She doesn’t answer. I’m being an ass, but come on! My sister does not want this, I’m almost positive.
The nurse shows us into a spacious exam room, much nicer than the regular doctor’s office, where you practically need to sit on each other’s laps. Rachel is given a soft terry-cloth robe, and when she’s changed, the doctor comes in, a very normal-looking woman, which I find reassuring. Maybe around sixty, a pleasantly big nose, bags under her eyes. “Hi, I’m Dr. Louper,” she says. “Rachel, right? So nice to meet you. So you’re interested in the Mommy Makeover?”
“Don’t judge me,” she answers blithely, closing the minivan door. “I’m only here for a consultation.”
“You’re perfect! You’re beautiful! Rachel, you get carded when we go out! Everyone thinks I’m the older sister.”
“I’m feeling a little...frumpy, that’s all.”
“So buy some green nail polish. You don’t need anything done to yourself.”
She turns to me, and her face is unexpectedly furious. “I want to see the plastic surgeon. Okay? I thought it would be easier with you here, but if you’re going to be a pain, then leave.”
Yikes. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I love you and think you’re beautiful.”
“I know. Thank you.” She takes a deep breath, shoots me an apologetic glance. “Look. Obviously, my ego has taken a hit. I’m just...curious. My friend Elle had a little work done—”
“She had some big work done. Those things are like cannonballs.”
“—and even before this, I noticed I was looking a little tired. I’ve been thinking about it.”
“Really? Since when?”
“Jenny, I’m allowed to have thoughts without immediately picking up the phone and calling you. Are you going to be a pain here? Or are you going to be supportive?”
“Uh...supportive. Sorry. Let’s go!” I fake a smile.
Rachel has told me just about everything since finding that picture on Adam’s phone. I know about the counseling session. I know she told him to ask Emmanuelle to get transferred, and he said he couldn’t do that. I know she called AT&T, Verizon and Comcast to see if he has another phone. I know she broke their wedding picture, and got it reframed. I know she got a clean result from the STD panel. I know she deliberately oversalted his dinner the other night, and he ate it anyway.
But she’s never once brought up plastic surgery.
The doctor’s office is as dark as a cave. The windows are frosted, and there’s a code to punch in. It feels more like we’re going into witness protection than a doctor’s office. When my eyes adjust, I can see that it’s actually quite lovely in here. There’s a huge dispenser of lemon-and-cucumber water and some hot water for tea, several tasteful black couches and cube end tables. Birdsong twitters from unseen speakers. A faux waterfall gushes behind the reception desk, reminding me that I had three cups of coffee this morning.
Rachel whispers to the receptionist, her shoulders tight, smiling hard to counter her shyness...and maybe the humiliation she feels at being here. It’s hardly original, is it? Husband has affair, wife decides to get some work done. Except Rachel isn’t the plastic-surgery type.
The soft-voiced and beautiful young woman checks Rachel in, and we take our seats. “Hi,” says a woman next to me. I recoil, then scratch my nose to cover. She looks like someone took a baseball bat to her. Her face is swollen and plum-colored; her hair is matted. She’s wearing pajamas and slippers. One of her feet is hugely swollen, and tubes snake out of the bottom of her shirt.
“Hi,” I say, remembering to speak. Rach is staring at a Martha Stewart magazine, pretending to be invisible.
“Are you getting work done?” the poor, poor woman asks.
“No! Nope. Not yet. Maybe. Someday. I don’t know.”
“Well, Dr. L. is great,” she says. “I’m just sorry I waited this long.”
“How...how long?”
“I should’ve done this when I was sixty,” she says, ventriloquist-like in her ability not to move her lips. “I’m eighty-two, can you believe it?”
She’s actually ageless, given that her purple face is stretched tighter than an eggplant.
“So what did you have done?” I ask, unable to help myself.
“The whole package,” she says. “Got my eyelids done, some Botox, a little filler, chin implant, cheekbones, got my lips done, neck lift, breast implants, tummy tuck, ass lift.”
“Oh...wow,” I whisper. I can’t imagine the pain—let alone the cost—of all those procedures. I think she might be smiling at me. Or grimacing. An ass lift? At eighty-two? I plan on proudly letting my ass drag when I’m eighty-two. I sure as hell wouldn’t—
“I say go for the whole package. No need in coming back ten or twelve times. Just have them knock you out and go for it.”
“So are you in a lot of pain?” I ask my new best friend.
“Agonizing,” she answers. “I won’t lie. I was hit by a car when I was sixteen. This hurts more. I was begging for morphine the first three weeks.”
My eyelids flutter. I’ve never been brave with pain.
“Rachel Carver?” a nurse calls.
Rach puts down the magazine and stands up, running her hands over the front of her dress.
I scramble up after her. “Did you hear that?” I hiss. “She was begging for morphine!”
“Can you just relax, please?”
“Rachel, that woman looked like she was attacked by gorillas.”
She doesn’t answer. I’m being an ass, but come on! My sister does not want this, I’m almost positive.
The nurse shows us into a spacious exam room, much nicer than the regular doctor’s office, where you practically need to sit on each other’s laps. Rachel is given a soft terry-cloth robe, and when she’s changed, the doctor comes in, a very normal-looking woman, which I find reassuring. Maybe around sixty, a pleasantly big nose, bags under her eyes. “Hi, I’m Dr. Louper,” she says. “Rachel, right? So nice to meet you. So you’re interested in the Mommy Makeover?”
