After several seconds of shocked silence, I say, “That sucks. Why didn’t you tell me right away?”
“We were afraid you wouldn’t leave your hospital room if you knew.”
“So you figured you’d prolong my suffering by making me sit here to be gawked at by everyone? Did you want to torture me?’
“No, we wanted to prepare you. The paparazzi are outside, waiting for you to come out. They’re being kept out by security. We couldn’t let you walk out without warning you, right?”
“Right,” I mutter.
“Don’t worry,” Georgia says, “the crazy staring will pass. Until then, it’ll be rough because people are going berserk over this story. They find your story inspiring, for some reason. There’s even imitation going on. I heard on the news that earlier today there was a fashion show in which male models pounced on female models on the runway and stripped them of their dowdy, unflattering clothes, to reveal their chic couture outfits underneath.”
“It’s true,” Peter says. “And a wedding took place today in which the bride walked down the aisle wearing a big ugly sack or tent and a bunch of her friends stripped her, uncovering her beautiful wedding gown.”
Jack says, “A buddy of mine was at a strip club last night and said some of the strippers were doing it, too, taking off big hideous outfits to reveal their sexy little selves underneath.”
“You see what I mean?” Georgia says to me. “But mostly the media wants to know why such a beauty as yourself would hide her looks for years. That’s what they want to ask you.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say.
“That’s fine. You can leave it up to the men.”
“What men?”
“The men you did your ritual on, at bars. They’re coming out of the woodwork, offering their theories, their gibberish, not always flattering to you, by the way — obviously, because their pride was wounded. They describe how you misrepresented yourself. One guy said it’s as bad as dishonesty the other way around, like when he meets women online who pretend they’re better-looking than they are by showing him photos of themselves younger, thinner, or photos of other women.”
Clearly, I can never put my disguise back on. Too many people would know it’s just a disguise. And it would excite them. And their excitement would make my life more miserable than simply enduring my appearance.
“Do we want to get out of this hospital the straightforward way or do we want to sneak out?” Georgia asks.
“Sneak out, obviously,” I say.
“I think it would be a mistake.”
“Why?”
“If you’re elusive they’ll never leave you alone. If you’re accessible they’ll get bored faster.”
“Okay, the straightforward way, then,” I say.
I’m holding on to Peter’s arm as we exit the hospital through the main entrance. Georgia wasn’t kidding. There are TV news crews and a throng of photographers shoving one another, shouting things at me, like—
“Barb, show us your cuts! Your stitches!”
“Do you hate men, Barb?”
“Why didn’t you go into modeling or acting? You could have made a fortune!”
“Barb, you’re gorgeous!”
“Smile, Barb! Show us your teeth!”
“Got anything to say to TMZ?”
I fight my urge to turn away or run. It’s challenging, because I feel as though I’m in a pool of sharks. And yet that’s exactly what one’s supposed to do in a pool of sharks: move calmly, don’t panic, don’t go berserk trying to escape.
Despite my efforts to remain accessible per Georgia’s advice — at least visually if not verbally — their excitement is growing. They seem energized by my lack of resistance.
Trying to control the edge of hysteria in my voice, I say in Georgia’s ear, “They’re not getting bored like you said.”
A paparazzo shouts, “She spoke! What did she say? Barb, say that again, we didn’t hear you!”
Georgia’s face reaches up to my ear and replies: “Yes, they are. This is them, bored. If you had fled, you would have seen true madness.”
Peter’s driver is double parked, waiting for us. As we’re about to get in the car, several of the paparazzi behind me shout, “Over your shoulder, Barb!” I look behind me to see what they’re talking about. They just wanted to get another shot.
We’re followed by a few news vehicles.
When we arrive at Penelope’s building, we hurry inside.
In her apartment, we stand around Lily’s feet, which Penelope has succeeded in putting back together. On the coffee table is a portion of her face, which Penelope has also put back together like a separate piece of a puzzle. It’s heart-wrenching. Every part of Lily has retained its horrible mirror-like reflectiveness. Next to the excerpt of her face is her reassembled hand, and part of her other one. Penelope says the extremities are the easiest, whereas the larger, less detailed planes such as the thighs and back will be more difficult — like sections of clear blue skies, or virgin snow, in puzzles.
I give Penelope a hug and a kiss of gratitude for her touching but pointless efforts to put Lily back together.
After our visit, Peter takes me to my apartment. He helps me get into bed. He lies next to me, dressed. I cry and he caresses my face. It all seems so inevitable. Lily, dead of sadness, me, here, loved for a worthless reason by an otherwise wonderful man. It’s all so predetermined and inescapable.
AT NINE THE next morning, the ringing of my cell phone wakes me. I don’t usually sleep this late, but my injuries have exhausted me and I took some painkillers in the middle of the night.
I answer my phone. It’s my mom, calling from Australia, sounding excited.
The first thing out of her mouth is: “That video is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen! I was at a bar a few hours ago and saw you on the TV getting stripped! I’ve been partying ever since, waiting until it was late enough to call you. I want to thank your crazy doorman. I’m sorry you got injured by all those pieces of glass, but sweetie, it was worth it!”
“I needed a four-hour transfusion. If I’d been wearing my disguise, I would have been protected from those shards and I wouldn’t have lost 40 percent of my blood.”
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. But I still think it was worth it.”
Hurt, I say, “If it hadn’t been for my disguise and the chance it gave me to hide by taking it off, I probably would be dead, shot by the doorman.”
“If it hadn’t been for your disguise, perhaps he wouldn’t have wanted to shoot you in the first place.”
“You don’t understand my doorman. He wanted to kill me because of my personality, not because of how I looked. I was too calm for his taste. He hated me for never getting offended by his insults. He found it belittling. His desire to kill me had nothing to do with my appearance.”
“So you think.”
I huff. “I’ll have some scars on my body,” I say, thinking at least she’ll care about that, since it has to do with beauty.
“Who cares! Bodily scars are nothing compared to how hideous you looked. I hope you’re never going to put back on that disgusting fat. I have my beautiful daughter back!” she screams.