Adventures with Max and Louise Read Free

something like this could have happened. I am a thorough surgeon, even meticulous. I don’t operate on people with body dysmorphic syndrome. Many surgeons take anyone. I hire the best assistants and anesthesiologists that I can possibly find. I, I . . . I really can’t believe this has happened.” He slumps into a chair. The nurse gazes down at him helplessly.
    “I can. Look at me. I come from a long line of flat-chested women. Okay, so my sister isn’t flat, but she’s a C cup. Now I am a D cup. A D cup. Look, I know some women really get into the whole cleavage thing, but I didn’t mind being flat-chested. It never bothered me. I’ll admit, it was kind of embarrassing when the pads in my bikini top floated out in the pool, and Peter Warnick grabbed one and played keep-away from me in high school, but most of the time it was okay. I cannot believe this happened.”
    I’m not so much talking as babbling out loud. Suddenly, I’m exhausted. Exhausted and overwhelmed.
    Dr. Hupta leans on his elbows, staring at the chart as if it’s going to change into something more acceptable. “I am so terribly sorry.” He sighs. “I don’t know what else to say.”
    Angeli flutters her eyes at him from the foot of the bed where she’s sitting. I’ve known Angeli since grade school when she moved from Bombay, horrified to find out on the first day of school that her last name, Poopathi, was a passport to American grade school hell. Martin and I gained her undying friendship by calling her Angeli during first recess instead of Poopy Pants, like the rest of our classmates. Her parents were both at the University of Washington medical school. Angeli spent almost every waking hour at my house, absorbing American culture like a sponge.
    I know this look. It’s a flirty, come hither look that means, as far as any male is concerned, I am now wallpaper. “What’s body dysmorphic syndrome?” she asks, batting her long, black eyelashes.
    Dr. Hupta perks up, happy to talk about something other than his career-wrecking mistake. “When people become addicted, so to speak, to plastic surgery. They have one surgery, and the results are so favorable they have another and then another until they’ve remade their body and their face into something unrecognizable. They put up with an incredible amount of pain and suffering in order to attain an imagined perfection that in reality doesn’t exist. It’s a psychological condition.”
    The lecture calms him. I want to tell him not to bother because, although she herself is Indian, Angeli doesn’t date Indian men, the result of one too many fix-ups from her parents’ friends.
    “Fascinating,” Angeli chirps. She’s hitting on my doctor. After listening to her gripe about Indian men and their hang-ups for ten years, she’s decided to flirt with one who has just butchered me. I would smack her, but I doubt I can lift my arm.
    “Michael Jackson was the most famous sufferer,” he says before turning to me. “After a review, we can schedule you for surgery in eight weeks. I can use the same incisions to remove the implants with very little scarring. You will still retain a much-improved appearance with your scars. Perhaps dermabrasion in a few months would be something to explore. I don’t know.”
    I nod, feeling slightly mollified. At least there’s a plan.
    “Do you think you can comfortably live with the implants for two months?” There is genuine concern in his voice.
    “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” I snap.

 
    Chapter Two
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    A FTER D R . H UPTA and the nurse leave, Angeli helps me change into my sweats. By the time we open the curtains, nose job girl and her mother have departed. I gather my purse, shoving the postoperative instructions inside. Together we slowly walk down the hallway toward the waiting room door. Dr. Hupta appears, briefly assuring me that he’ll be in touch tomorrow before fading back into the hallway. His thick hair hangs in his eyes. He