Exposed (Madame X, #2)(59)

“You have not tried.”

“I have. For so long, for—”

“How long, Caleb? How long?” My understanding of my own life’s time frame doesn’t make sense.

The years, the dates, how long I was in a coma, how many years of memory I have, how reliable the memories I do have are . . . all of this is in doubt. Nothing I know, nothing I think I know, is necessarily true.

“How old am I?” I ask.

“They weren’t sure exactly how old you were when the accident happened,” you say.

“And what year did the accident happen in?”

“In 2009,” you say, immediately.

“And I was in a coma for how long?”

“Six months.”

I push past you. “I think you are a liar.”

“Isabel—”

“Take me to Dr. Frankel.”

Your teeth click together, your head tilts back, your eyes narrow. “Very well, Ms. de la Vega. As you wish.”

We wait for the elevator in tense silence. As the doors open, I turn to you. “Tell me the truth, Caleb.”

“About what?”

“About me. About what happened. About everything.”

You twist the key. “Dr. Frankel is waiting.”

Not another word is spoken. We transfer elevators one floor down, and go from there to the thirty-second floor. Bare hallways, featureless, identical doors differentiated by alphanumeric designations. A sparse white room, a bed with white paper laid over hard, plasticky leather. Dr. Frankel is a short, pudgy man at the unforgiving end of middle age, a man to whom time and gravity have not been kind. Jowls hang and sway, a pendulous belly covers a belt buckle, khaki pants are tight around thighs and loose around calves. Brown eyes reflect a quick mind, with hands that are small and quick and nimble and gentle and sure.

“Ah. The patient. Very good.” A pat of a hand invites me to sit on the paper, which crinkles and shifts under my weight. “Yes, yes. I remember you. A rather remarkable work I did, if I say so myself. Not a trace of your old injuries remains. Very good, very good. This will be quick and easy. A local anesthetic, a quick incision, and it’ll be done. No pain, no mess.”

I lie down on the bed. “Let us proceed then.”

A clearing of the throat. “Well, the incision is in your hip, you see. So I’ll, ah, need you to disrobe. From the waist down, at least.”

Without hesitation, I hike my dress up to my waist, staring at the wall, and work my underwear off. “Better?”

“Um. Yes. I would have left the room, you know.”

“I want this over with. I want the chip out.”

“I didn’t think you knew.”

“I didn’t,” I say. “I do now.”

A bob of a heavy head. “I see. I see. Well. I’ll just spread this over you . . .” Dr. Frankel drapes a large square of blue tissue over my waist, a square in the middle left open.

The square encloses the scar on my hip, and the doctor uses medical tape to make sure the tissue remains in place. Dr. Frankel dons a pair of blue exam gloves from a packet, very carefully not touching any of the glove except the very ends near the wrists as he slides them on.

Lifting a syringe, the doctor casts a glance to me. “A little pinch now.” There is a brief sharp poke, coldness against my skin, and then nothing. “Some iodine to sterilize your skin . . .” A small white carton has its lid torn off, revealing a brown liquid and a sponge.

The iodine is cold and turns my skin orange.

Another packet is opened, revealing a scalpel and a pair of forceps. Dr. Frankel lifts the scalpel and prods my scar with it. “Can you feel that?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Very good. I’ll begin. Look away, perhaps? And if the anesthetic wears off, let me know right away and I’ll administer some more. I don’t want you to feel a thing.”

“All right. Carry on then.”

I watch in curiosity as Dr. Frankel presses the tip of the scalpel directly over my scar, free hand keeping my skin taut. After a glance at me to make sure I’m not experiencing any pain, the incision is lengthened, precisely to the size of the previous one. Blood wells after a moment, and a cloth smears it away, and then forceps delve into the opening of my skin. I am morbidly fascinated, watching as my skin is parted. The scar isn’t actually directly on my hip, but nearer to my buttock, just behind the bone, which explains how something like a chip could be inserted subcutaneously without leaving a bump. A moment of searching with the forceps, and then Dr. Frankel withdraws them, pincering a tiny red-dripping square of plastic. The chip is so small I wouldn’t have suspected anything amiss even if it had been placed where it would leave a bump. It clatters in a bowl, and then Dr. Frankel deftly sews the incision shut with a few quick loops of black thread and tapes a bandage over the area.

The entire procedure took perhaps five minutes from start to finish.

“Wonderful. That’s that.” Snapping the gloves off, Dr. Frankel wraps up the entire mess, sans surgical instruments and syringe, and discards it in the trash, and the instruments are deposited in a box on the wall labeled SHARPS.

“Thank you very much, Dr. Frankel,” you say. “Your balance should reflect your payment by the end of business today.”

“I have no doubt.” A quick glance at Caleb. “And this evening?”