If You Only Knew(50)

“Oh, pretty bad,” I say. “He’s unfairly attractive.”

“I saw him at the cemetery the other night. Did he tell you? He was out for a bike ride.”

I’ve seen Leo go out on his bike. I haven’t seen him drive, oddly enough. Then again, he may well go out when I’m at work, and when I’m home, he’s got his students, tormenting me with “Three Blind Mice” and “Pop Goes the Weasel” and “Let It Go.” He’s already warned me that around Christmastime, I may want to buy some swords for seppuku.

“So where are we going, Rach?” I ask.

To hell, she doesn’t say, but ten minutes later, I’m in hell. Or, as it’s known, Monarca MedAesthetics & Youth Restoration LLC, part of a beautiful shopping complex on the edge of Cambry-on-Hudson.

“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.”