Girl In The Mirror. Mary Monroe Alice

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      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?

      Five

      Three 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.”

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