Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

Skye

Four Years Later

I squirm. The sharp snip of scissors sends a chill down my spine. Goosebumps erupt along my arms.

"Stay still." The gentle voice of my plastic surgeon, one of the many wonderful doctors who have attended to me since my near fatal accident. After years of rehabilitation, most of which have been spent at a nun-run facility, the new me is about to make her debut. Sister Marie, the big-hearted nun, who took me under her wing and lovingly nursed me back to health, both physically and emotionally, holds my hand.

"Doctor, be careful of my necklace," I stammer, moving my other hand to the dangling gold locket. The one single thing that's gotten me through my darkest moments. Those many times I wanted to give up. Having the photo of my family—my husband, baby daughter, and me inside it close to my heart—gave me the will to persevere. And gave me hope.

"Honey, it's going to be all right," says Sister Marie, her voice as soothing as a balm. How many times she's said that to me, getting me over humps of severe depression and despair. Thinking that I'd never walk or talk again and most of all never see my family. My beloved Finn and our precious Maddie. Gripping the large cross that hangs on her buxom chest, she says a soft prayer as my surgeon continues to work on me.

Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip.

Sitting upright on an examining table, I keep my unblinking eyes on my doctor as he cuts through the layers of bandages that swath my face. My heart beats overtime. I suck in a deep breath. This will be the first time I see my new self. My face, mutilated in the accident I can't remember, has required years of plastic surgery along with countless other operations to repair the rest of my battered body. Years of painful, painstaking surgeries, months confined to a hospital bed hooked up to all kinds of IVs and fed intravenously, weeks on end using a wheelchair, walker, or crutches, hours and hours of grueling physical, occupational, cognitive, and speech therapy. I've been told my car went over Mulholland Drive. A horrific car crash. If a Hollywood tour guide hadn't seen it burst into flames, I would have been left to die. It's a miracle I survived, says Sister Marie. A double miracle. Resuscitated by the medics and then I almost didn't make it in the hospital. Touch and go in a coma for three months, followed by a year in critical care in a full body cast.

In rehab, I learned to walk and talk again. But because of the extensive, disfiguring damage, my face has remained hidden to me. For the last few years, I've looked much like the Invisible Man or should I say Woman, my head wrapped like a mummy's in bandages with apertures for my eyes, nose, and mouth. One reconstructive facial surgery after another. After each, my doctor telling me, "We're getting there."

I never was what one would consider beautiful though Finn always told me I was. At best cute with my dimpled chin, puppy-brown eyes, and upturned nose. Somehow, the network makeup people camouflaged my imperfections and made me glow on the air. My dynamic personality and intelligence also helped me shine.

"Are you okay?" asks Dr. Sanders as he unravels the bandages.

I nod. Inside my chest, my heart is hammering. Every nerve is buzzing. A dizzying mixture of anticipation and dread spools through me. In addition to sustaining major lacerations, almost every bone in my face was shattered in the accident. My jaw, my cheekbones, even my teeth. I also sustained a serious brain injury—blunt force trauma—that resulted in retrograde amnesia. I'm unable to recall the traumatic events of the night that almost cost me my life. Not one. Nor the days leading up to it. I've totally blocked them out. And despite extensive psychotherapy, there's a good possibility I may never remember what happened. All I know from a Detective Billings is someone tried to kill me.

"How's it going, doc?" I ask hesitantly. My raspy voice after all these years still sounds alien to me. My windpipe, I was told, was crushed in the accident. I'm lucky I can talk says my speech pathologist. Another miracle.

"So far, so good," replies my plastic surgeon as layers of gauze peel off. I can hear a smile in his voice. He's working from the base of my neck up.

Suddenly, a cold draft hits the exposed flesh of my face. The air conditioning. Another shiver runs through me. Not because I'm cold, but because I'm apprehensive. Butterflies flit in my stomach as my heart constricts in my chest.

Chewing my lips, I fight the urge to touch my face. I slide the hand Sister Marie isn't holding under my butt to keep it at bay. Temptation taunts me.

"We're almost there," says the good doctor, still unwinding the gauze. It feels like an eternity.

"Oh, honey!" exclaims Sister Marie. Her face is beaming. I can hear happy tears in her voice.

My gaze stays on the bespeckled doctor as he peels off the last of my bandages. A tangle of gauze dangles from his hand.

"How much longer will it take?" I ask, impatience mixing with my trepidation.

His eyes unwavering, he flashes a smile. "We're almost there."

Anxiously, I inhale again through my nose and feel my nostrils flare. The doctor's eyes stay on me and his smile widens as he places the mountain of gauze on the tray table next to him. Next to the pile is a large hand mirror.

"Beautiful," he breathes out.

Sister Marie echoes him, her voice still teary. "So beautiful."

The three syllables of the word spin around my head. "Beau-ti-ful." Beautiful.

My heart still in my throat, I watch as Dr. Sanders lifts the mirror to my face. "Take a look."

With baited breath, I meet my reflection. In disbelief, I blink my eyes several times. My mouth falls open and I audibly gasp.

"Oh my God." The words spill out as if they're almost one. My mouth stays agape as I behold my face. It's perfection.

Except for one small scar that intercepts my right eyebrow, my skin is smooth... creamy like porcelain... and almost wrinkle-free except for a few faint smile lines around my brand new hazel eyes, thanks to a revolutionary laser procedure. My thinner oval face now has high cheekbones that bracket a slightly turned up slender nose and accentuate my strong jawline. My former chin-length dyed hair is back to its original shade of auburn and floats along my back in a long loose braid. I'm paralyzed by the sight of myself. All the surgeries and laser treatments have totally transformed me.

"What do you think?" asks my surgeon, cutting into my stupor.

My emotions in turmoil, I try to form words. But I can't. Shock has hijacked my voice.

"Well?"

I try to squeak out a word. Only a soft gasp spills out.

"Smile," he says cheerfully. "Put on a happy face, Skye."

To please him, I force a smile. A small closed-mouth one.

"Come on, you can do better. Let's see those beautiful teeth."

Hesitantly, I give him a toothy smile. My perfect pearly white caps and implants have lushened my lips. They're fuller.

"There you go," he beams as I hear Sister Marie sigh.

Enough. Abandoning the smile, I run my fingers along the contours of my new face. Slowly, trying to ingest, memorize, and savor the softness of my skin along with every new angle. One word finally forms on my lips. A breathy whisper. "Wow."

I don't recognize myself.

Nor will anyone else.

I am, for the first time in my life, truly beautiful.

Yet, tears fill my eyes.

Who will remember me?

No one.

Not even my husband who's been told I'm dead. And he seems to have disappeared from this planet with no trace of him. Finn Hooker no longer exists.

Nor do I.