Second Nature Read Free Page B

rich boyfriend had whisked her across the country from a Utah ski holiday. Once she arrived in the ICU for the second time in two years, she pulled me close to her and said, “You’re like the patron saint of suffering.” When a surgeon came out to quietly explain to the gathered family—my grandparents, their brothers and sisters, and my aunt Christina, who is a Franciscan nun—that there was nothing more they could do, that my mother’s chest was crushed, I could not make my legs work to walk across the room and say goodbye to my mother. Marie stayed by my side even then, her adored big sister behind that drawn curtain. She did not leave Chicago, for business or pleasure, for the next three years. To adopt me, Marie gave up a job in the lofty six figures as an anchor on CBN News in New York, the rich boyfriend with the airplane, the beach house in Sagaponack—all in exchange for waking up every night to comfort a tremulous teenager who wouldn’t eat and had begun to wet the bed each time she dreamed that she saw tiny flames on every flat surface. “It’s not much,” she told me the night Mom died. “But I’ll never leave you.”
    I had forgotten I was even holding the phone when Eliza said, “Sicily, are you there?”
    “I am. I’m sorry. Just spaced out for a moment.”
    “Do … do you think we could have coffee?”
    “Well,” I said. “Sure, okay … why?”
    “I’m a first-year resident at UIC. Not on the burn unit. At the Center for Reconstructive Surgery. I’m only a resident, studying to be a doctor, but—”
    I giggled a little. “I know what a resident is. I’m a medical illustrator. And I have spent a fair amount of time in the hospital.”
    “Of course. I know that. I’m going to be a reconstructive surgeon. And my mentor, Dr. Grigsby, pioneered full-face transplant surgery, well … years and years ago.”
    “Does she have a new technique? Does she need illustrations?” I asked.

    “No. No. I … She just moved here from London, actually, to head up a team at UIC. And I told her about you. I told her about your career. I told her about your … face.” Huh? I thought. Then Eliza said, “I was thinking you might be hoping for a face transplant.”
    “A what?”
    “A face transplant.”
    “For me?”
    “Well, yes.”
    “I don’t need a face transplant.” I almost laughed again.
    “That’s the thing,” Eliza said. “If you thought you needed to have a face—that is, a new face—you probably shouldn’t be considered. If you couldn’t work or have a social life, for example, with your face the way it is, you really shouldn’t be a candidate for a new one.”
    I sat down on my bed, flummoxed. “Eliza, this sounds like Alice in Wonderland . Like, if you’re well read, you shouldn’t wear red … or whatever. This is very thoughtful, but you know how many surgeries I’ve already had? Why would I do this? Not to mention, I don’t have a million dollars or so sitting around.”
    “Whatever your insurance didn’t cover, the hospital would. There’s a fund.”
    “Eliza,” I said, suddenly eager to be asleep, oblivious. “It’s just really awkward. You might as well suggest I … hatch fertilized eggs from an alien. This is so not on my radar.”
    “I’m sorry. This was probably inappropriate. You must think I’m trying to score success points with my boss. It is not that. It was something my husband said. When he was in college, he thought he might be a teacher. He helped with summer sports programs at Holy Angels. He graduated from there.”
    “I played … uh, hoops, summer league.” I didn’t try to say “basketball.” I didn’t say “basketball” or any words that began with “B” or “P” if I could help it. Not having lips is a disadvantage with plosives. I’d avoided them for so long, I was virtually my own simultaneous translator.
    “Right. Ben transferred to your school because there was too much attention at public school