The Ward (12 page)

And it’s hardly surprising that I freaked out after what Farrell and I saw in the morgue and casualty. But what did I expect? There had just been a major tragedy. Of course there would be
blood everywhere and people screaming. And now that I’m in here, in this civilised, clean room, it’s mortifying to think about how I over reacted. Like Gertie is always saying, people
die in hospitals all the time, and that awful grey-faced guy was just some pervert who tried to spy on me while I was showering. Big deal.

But what about the photographs of Farrell? And the lines on his body?

Some nurse’s idea of a sick joke. Has to be.

Farrell must think I’m some kind of neurotic loser. God, it’s embarrassing.

Cringe-worthy. When I see him again the first thing I’ll do is apologise.

If I ever see him again, that is.

But why shouldn’t I? I must still be
somewhere
in New Hope. Sure, it doesn’t
feel
like the same place, but the idea I cooked up that Dad moved me to another hospital is
mental. I was careful. Very careful. I deleted the flight information and all the hospital details off my hard drive, and I even cleared out the computer’s recycle bin and browsing history. I
paid the first instalment personally with a bank deposit, so there’s no way he’d be able to trace it to New Hope’s accounts department.

No. The only way he could have tracked me down was if he’d phoned every hospital in South Africa, and I really can’t see him doing that. The last thing he’d expect me to do is
hop on a plane to Joburg, especially as just before I made the decision to go under the knife again I was going through another one of my ‘social isolation’ periods, reluctant to leave
the house, unable to stand seeing anyone but Dad and Sharon; freaking out when Sharon’s school friends came over. The only time I actually ventured outside was when Dad insisted that I keep
my cognitive-therapy appointments with Dr Meka, ramping up the emotional blackmail to force me into the car.

And I know how Dad’s mind works. He’ll probably assume that I took our last argument to heart and that this time I’ve left for good (one way or the other). Maybe he feels
guilty now for leaving the latest batch of hospital bills on the kitchen table for everyone to see. My last trip to Margate Private Hospital’s emergency department wasn’t covered by the
dwindling medical aid. Getting your stomach pumped isn’t cheap.

I can hear his voice now: ‘It’s not just you I have to think about, Lisa. What about Sharon? You’re tearing this family apart, bankrupting us! How many therapists and shrinks and God knows what have you been to in the last two years? Seven? Eight? How could you do this to us after your mother suffered like she did?’ And the last
thing he said to me, a note of finality in his voice: ‘You have to get over this, or get the hell out. You’re twenty-four, for Christ’s sake.’ Perhaps he meant it this
time.

I try to imagine what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling. Worry? Relief that he won’t have to shell out for any more of Dr Meka’s sessions and Luvox prescriptions?
I’m not exactly sure how many appointments I’ve missed since I left the South Coast, but it has to be at least four. Good. Her last therapeutic exercise, designed so that I’d
‘get an objective reaction to my appearance’ was beyond stupid. How is taking a photograph of my face and showing it to random people in the mall going to help? People are hardly going
to tell the truth, are they? If some stranger came up to me and showed me a picture of a freak, I’m hardly going to admit that I think she’s a monster, am I?

No one gets it. Dad and Sharon just think I’m self-involved and neurotic to the point of madness, and Dr Meka thinks she knows what I’m going through with her ‘change your
behaviour patterns and learn to deal with your anxiety issues’ spiel, but she actually doesn’t have a clue. They should be glad I’m not like the other BDD people I’ve read
about on the forums. The ones who don’t have the cash for conventional procedures and who perform their own surgeries, cut into their bodies and make things worse. Like the girl from the
States who was hospitalised after hacking away at her thighs with a paring knife – her version of DIY liposuction; the guy from Ireland who filed his teeth down to the nerves because he
thought they stuck out too much.

So, if it wasn’t Dad who moved me here, who was it?

It has to be someone connected with New Hope. The doctors here know that I lied to them about my previous surgeries. Oh God. What if they’ve figured out I’ve got a
‘problem’ and have moved me to some sort of psychiatric ward?

That’s just stupid. I’m just being paranoid.

I trace my fingers over my face again. The material covering my skin is perfectly smooth and reminds me of the silkiness of scar tissue. It’s some sort of hi-tech surgical mask. I can feel
the slight raised edges of it around my hairline and below my chin, and it’s extremely light and flexible. I can move my mouth and blink, but when I press my fingers over my cheek, the skin
beneath still feels numb and tingly, almost as if it’s gone to sleep. It’s not an unpleasant feeling. And I’m almost positive that my nose has changed shape. I’ve been down
this road before, but this time… this time I think it might have worked. Can I allow myself to hope? Why not?

My bladder is aching, but what I really need – even more – is to find a mirror. There must be a bathroom behind the door on the other side of the bed. I suppose I should really see
if I can locate a nurse or a doctor, but first things first.

I kick the covers off and slide down off the bed. My legs are still slightly shaky, but I can use the drip stand for support. At least my head is no longer woolly, and after the first couple of
steps it gets easier. I’m tempted to look at my reflection in the darkened screen of the television, but I resist. It will only give me a false impression, and I want my first glimpse of my
new face to be perfect.

Yuk. My mouth is dry and there’s a slight medicinal taste on my tongue. If I can find where they’ve stashed my stuff I can brush my teeth and hair before I look in the mirror. I try
the cupboard next to the bathroom door, but it’s empty. Dammit. Where are my clothes? There’s no robe to cover the skimpy hospital gown I’m wearing, but at least it’s warm
in here, and there’s no one to see me.

It’s pitch black inside the bathroom. I’m hit with the strong scent of cleaning fluid – I can smell again! I slide my fingers over the wall until they touch the light switch. I
breathe in deeply, and manoeuvre the drip stand into the bathroom. There’s plenty of space in here; it’s much larger than most of the hospital en suites I’ve been in. It’s
decorated floor to ceiling in pale-pink ceramic tiles, and there’s even a sunken bath and a bidet next to the toilet. It’s just the kind of bathroom you’d find in a plush hotel,
except there’s a contraption suspended from the ceiling above the bath. I push the shower curtain aside. Ugh. It doesn’t look anything like the orthopaedic hand rails and equipment Dad
installed for Mom after she got sick. Six curved and spiky stainless steel arms hang down from some sort of hydraulic mechanism, like a giant metal spider waiting to pounce. I don’t like the
thought of lying in the bath and staring up at that thing. It must be a hi-tech lifting device, maybe for paraplegics.

The temptation to check out my reflection in the mirror above the sink is so intense it almost hurts, but I make myself wait. I’ll pee first. The toilet paper – pink, 3-ply –
is folded at the edge, just like in a high-end hotel. And there’s a sign tacked up next to the towel rail: ‘Be A Good Client. Use Towels More Than Once
’.

A good client? Don’t they mean ‘patient’?

But I’ve got more important considerations right now. I flush, stand up and shuffle over to the sink. I wash my hands first, and then, holding on to the edge of the sink, I allow myself to
look in the mirror.

Breathe, Lisa
.

My limp blonde hair frames nothing but a pale-pink blankness. The mask is flawless – it’s almost as if they’ve applied a perfectly smooth cosmetic face mask that covers every
inch of skin apart from my lips, my nostrils and around my eyes. I tug gently at the edge that curves under my chin. It moves slightly, but it’s probably a bad idea to mess with it until a
nurse or doctor says I can. I don’t think it’s been actually glued onto my skin, but it tingles; it feels like part of me. But why not just protect my nose? Why my whole face?

Hang on. My lips look a shade darker, as if I’ve applied magenta lipstick, and are they… are they plumper? I run my tongue over them. Like the rest of my face, they’re still
fairly numb, but that has to be from the last traces of the anaesthetic. I turn my head to the side and check out my profile. Is my chin less prominent? It is! I’m almost sure of it! And my
nose. There’s no question that it’s smaller, maybe even slightly upturned. A
cute
nose.

I practise smiling, watching as the mask seamlessly moves with my facial muscles, almost like a second skin. Are my teeth whiter? They can’t be. It must be the light in here.

Amazing.

I lean right over the sink, so close to the mirror that condensation from my breath clouds my reflection. Whatever it is they’ve done, it’s definitely something radical. That Indian
doctor said they might have to do some drastic reconstruction… Is this what he meant?

The sound of the door slamming makes me jump. There’s someone in my room. I can hear the clatter of a trolley.

‘Good morning!’ a woman’s high-pitched voice calls. ‘Where are you, luvvie?’

I wheel the drip out of the bathroom. A middle-aged woman wearing a short pink smock and long white socks is standing next to the television. She smiles and waves at me. Her short brown hair
is tied into jaunty schoolgirlish bunches.

‘Hello, my dear. Breakfast time! Yummy yum!’ Where do hospitals find these relentlessly cheerful women? I find myself smiling back at her.

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Look, this is going to sound weird, but… where exactly am I?’

She chuckles. ‘What a question! You’re in the Wards, of course, dear.’

‘Which ward, though?’

She rolls her eyes as if we’re sharing an in-joke. ‘I know what you must be thinking. There was a mix-up at first, but it’s all tip-topped now.’

‘What do you mean, a mix-up?’

She peers at the door as if she’s concerned about being overheard, and whispers, ‘About your status, of course.’

‘Status?’

‘Yes!’ She claps her hands. ‘Exactly.’

‘Which ward am I in, though? You mean, this is another section of New Hope?’

She looks slightly confused. ‘I’m sorry, dear?’

‘I mean, why was I moved? Why aren’t I back in my old ward?’

The woman tuts. ‘Because you belong here, dear, you know that.’

I’m getting nowhere. ‘But I’m still in New Hope, right?’

She acts as if she hasn’t heard me. ‘Now, pop yourself back into bed, and I’ll serve you your breakfast. Come on, choppity, chop, chop!’

I catch a whiff of something delicious – toast and eggs? My stomach growls. Breakfast time already; I must have been out for longer than I thought. God, I’m starving. I manoeuvre the
drip stand past the trolley, and slip back into bed.

‘Good girl!’ She approaches the bed and plumps the pillows behind my head. I try not to flinch away from her. She reeks of a strange scent, like rotting strawberries. As she pulls
the tray table over my legs, I realise that three of her fingers – middle, ring and pinky – are missing on her right hand, and the stumps are painted with nail polish.

My stomach lurches and I shudder before I can stop myself. It’s the same reaction I always get when I see any type of injury or deformity. Dr Meka says that it’s not actually
revulsion I’m feeling, but guilt, because I know in my subconscious that, compared to people who are deformed or badly injured, I look just fine. But that’s crap. I know it’s crap
from the time that Dad dragged me to the Port Shepstone Public Hospital burns unit to shock me out of my ‘delusions’ as he called them. He made me go into a ward full of kids whose
faces and bodies had been horribly scarred in paraffin fires and car and taxi accidents. ‘Do you think these kids have a choice, Lisa?’ he said, haranguing me right there in the ward,
while the kids’ parents stared and nurses shook their heads in disapproval. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you, my girl. You’re beautiful, perfect. Just like your mother was.
These people have real problems.’

The woman is staring at me. ‘Everything okay, luvvie?’

‘Yes. Yes, everything’s fine.’

‘Goody good.’

She scratches idly at the back of her neck, and, as she traipses back to the trolley, I catch sight of a large scab just below the parting where her hair is tied into bunches. God, what could
have caused that sort of injury? She picks up a tray containing a covered plate, a pot of what smells deliciously like filter coffee and a glass of orange juice. She slides it onto my table and
whips the metal cover off. ‘Ta da! Smoked salmon and scrambled free-range eggs. Your favourite.’

‘How… how did you know that?’

‘It’s in your file, dear.’

‘What file?’