Killer Pancake

I mumbled something along the lines of “Okay.”

Lane slapped down the pencil on her tray. “Let’s go to the next step, then.”

She turned on one of the imposing machines next to the chair. I became more nervous when she assured me that the machine was for brushing. Or, as I thought when Lane stroked my face with electric brushes attached to hoses that ran to the machine, it was sort of like getting a shoe polish for the face, minus the shoes and the polish.

When she was done, Lane gave me a disapproving, suspicious look and ordered me to close my eyes. Having learned my lesson from my Mignon makeover with Dusty, I closed my eyes without argument. Lane placed a wet cloth over my closed lids, levered the chair back, and turned on a rumbly machine that she told me was for steam.

“I’m taking your clothes to the dryer, and I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” she said. Her white nurse’s shoes squeaked toward the door. “Relax.”

Left to steam, my thoughts, and Bolero, I tried to unwind. I tried to think about what it was Maurice Ravel was setting to music. Unfortunately, all I could hear was the crash and thud of a vehicle hitting Claire, the shatter and crack as Nick Gentileschi fell out of the department store’s blind.

When Lane returned, she whipped the cloth off my eyes, turned off the steam, and retrieved what looked like a small magnifying glass from her pocket. I recoiled. My face had never been examined at close range.

“I’m going to turn off the light,” she declared bluntly, “and assess the amount of damage you’ve done over the years to your skin.”

By the time I’d managed to stammer, “Do I have to?” the overhead light was off, a purplish light had winked on, and Lane’s magnified eye was accompanied by tsk-tsk noises a la Sherlock Holmes. She flipped the lights back on, donned plastic gloves, and picked up a needle.

“Wait, wait.” I sat up quickly. “I thought women came in to have facials because it was fun and relaxing. Sort of like having a massage.”

“You’re going to look so much better,” she assured me. “We need to get rid of those blemishes.” She brandished the needle.

“Please, no,” I said feebly. “I have a real problem with … needles.”

Lane’s countenance was that of a nurse with an unpleasant but utterly necessary medication.

She said, “The receptionist reported you claimed you were terribly upset about your skin. Now you say you’re unsure about buying products, and you don’t want to have a facial. Are you certain you came in here really wanting to improve your appearance? Or is there some other reason you’re here?”

Paranoia reared its unattractive head again, and I succumbed. “It’s why I’m here,” I said meekly, and slumped back in the chair.

Lane poked and I shrieked. Again I got the displeased-nurse routine. Blemishes, she said as she poked again. I felt blood drip down my forehead. Lane dabbed at it. She put down the needle and, with two plastic-gloved fingers, squeezed the skin on my nose with all her might. I screamed again. At least with a dentist you got anesthetic.

Lane sighed reprovingly and brought the gloved hands to her abdomen. “Are you going to let me finish my work or not?”

“Not,” I said decisively, rubbing my poor, bent nose. The area above my nostrils felt as if it were on fire. My will—my entire desire in life—was now focused on getting out of Hotchkiss Skin & Hair.

“Do you just want your masque now?”

“Will it hurt?”

She rolled her eyes and sighed, then said, “No! Of course it won’t hurt.”

Lane had no credibility with me anymore. But I didn’t think a masque could be too bad unless you let it dry and it became more like a theater mask. Or maybe the masque would get to be like those masks they use in horror flicks to suffocate people…. Lane tapped her foot. Yes, I told her, I was desperate for the masque. She swabbed on some more thick, creamy stuff, draped towels over my face, and left. Oh, thank you, God, I said as I pulled the towels away and rubbed the cream off. Thank you, thank you, thank you for giving me a chance to get out of here. I didn’t want a masque, I didn’t want a facial, I certainly didn’t want any makeup.

I tiptoed over to my damp shoes and eased my feet inside. The rubber soles squished noisily as I headed for the door. I can’t escape in this robe, I realized with dismay. But how in the world would I find the dryer where they’d put my clothes? I retrieved the big plastic bag, grabbed the sack with Frances’s purchases, and put it in my purse, which I snapped shut. Clutching my purse, I peeked out in the hall. It was empty. I again thanked the Almighty and began to sneak past closed doors toward the back of the mansion. At each door I listened, but heard only silence, the buzz of the machines, or the low murmur of the facialists as they tortured other clients.