Willow Dawn Becker
Evelyn did not look into the mirror except when she was naked. She would make an event of taking an elaborate shower, waiting until the kids were fed and off to school and Reggie was put outside to catch butterflies or crap in the strawberry patch—whatever dogs did when no one was watching. Afterwards she would walk straight from the steam to the full-length princess mirror in her toddler’s room, bypassing even the scale, to hate herself and pinch herself and wish that she were twenty years younger.
Then she would eat frozen cookie dough until she cried. Or make a list of the things she would change about her life and eating habits and exercise starting today. Or both. Or neither. Sometimes the crying was enough to complete the ritual.
She avoided every other mirror except the tiny compact she kept in her purse for makeup touch-ups (all she could see were her crow’s feet in that one) and the fisheye round one she used to do her hair. They were functional, only showing close-ups and gray hairs, so they didn’t count. In those, she could brush away the years or paint them down. But in the real mirrors, there was nothing to do but look and despair.
So, when she drove up I-15 to take the car to get the brakes done, she noticed the billboard right away.
God is remodeling his temple. Shouldn’t you be remodeling yours?
It was a valid argument.
Evelyn was a church-going, card-carrying member of God’s flock. She taught five-year-olds how to pray on Sundays and baked meals for people who had babies or lost loved ones. She considered herself a good, kind person. Imperfect, sure, but definitely more perfect than some.
But that outside.
The baggy, flabby stomach from bearing her two children. The breasts whose nipples constantly stared at the floor. The thighs that wobbled like jello when she walked.
She loved herself. God loved her, too. But life was about improvement, wasn’t it? About remodeling the soul to be better? Why couldn’t the body be improved to match?
Evelyn thought about this on the drive home, as she fielded texts from Peter about picking him up from play practice. She considered it as she baked cookies for Jinnie’s preschool fundraiser. And by the time she stopped by to check in on her friend Kelly to give her regular cheer-up pep talk, she felt inspired by the idea. Enlightened. Yes, she deserved a little exterior work to reflect what she was accomplishing on the inside. She called the number from the billboard and scheduled the appointment.
The Central Lakes Clinic was a small office in a strip mall beside a dental office and a tanning salon. When Evelyn walked in, she saw only two small gray chairs and a glass table with an AARP magazine lying discarded on the top. The girl behind the counter was pretty and nice enough, but something about how she handed Evelyn the paper gown—with a look of pity and detached amusement—made Evelyn want to slap her perfect face.
After a moment of waiting, a woman in a white coat came into the room. She introduced herself as Dr. Beynar. She looked like a doctor from a porno, all boobs and lips and shiny, white teeth. Not that Evelyn had ever purposefully watched such a thing. But she had a teenage son and knew how to check a browser history.
Dr. Beynar smiled and asked questions: medical history, allergies, children. Evelyn wanted to melt into the table, pulling the paper robe close around her.
“What we do at Central Lakes is a standard reshaping package,” Dr. Beynar explained. “‘The Mom Job’, as you’ve probably heard it called. It’s a standard cosmetic procedure to lift things that are falling and tighten areas that are loose.” She smiled. “A great option for someone who’s ready to focus on feeling sexy again after spending her time focused on others.”
Evelyn smiled. She kept that smile even as Dr. Beynar drew pictures on her body—circling areas to be cut away, drawing arrows where things would be pulled tighter.
“So, what does all of this cost?”
Dr. Beynar gave her the sum, and Evelyn melted into tears.
It was just a few minutes, but it felt like an eternity before she could get herself together.
“I’m so sorry,” she snuffled. “I just. That’s almost my husband’s yearly salary. And I’m so old and ugly—”
Dr. Beynar hugged her, and Evelyn felt the odd sense that the doctor was really listening. Like she really cared. When Evelyn pulled back, Dr. Beynar’s face had changed from that of a doctor to that of a friend.
“You know,” Dr. Beynar said, “we do have another option.”
“Like a payment plan?” Evelyn gave a bitter laugh. “Thank you, but I couldn’t even make payments on something like that. It’s just too much—”
Dr. Beynar smiled. “No. No payment plans. This would be a free, non-surgical option. It’s in the process of being FDA-approved, so I technically can’t take payment for it. But when I see someone in need, I just want to help.”
Evelyn’s brain reeled from trying to process it all. “Wait. How does it work? Is it safe?”
She sat on the rolling stool near the hospital bed. “No surgery. No cutting.” Dr. Beynar said. “All organic and non-invasive. Mostly it’s just a very specialized juice cleanse. That’s the easiest way to describe it.”
Evelyn’s spirits fell. A juice cleanse. She’d done one before and ended up with raging diarrhea and no results.
“Basically, the old idea that beauty is pain?” Dr. Beynar went on, “well, it’s true. You’ve spent your life helping people, I can tell. You’ve given so much of your spiritual energy away that it’s aged you prematurely.”
Evelyn shifted uncomfortably. She’d heard stuff like this before, and usually left the conversation before she accidentally laughed at someone who thought crystals could fix your brain or essential oils could cure polio.
“Regaining beauty means taking some of that power back, Evelyn.” She touched her hand warmly. “Tell me that’s not something you could use.”
Evelyn bit her lip. She was definitely getting an essential oils vibe from this lady. Someone selling her something too good to be true.
“What the heck,” she said with a smile. “Let’s do it.” Even if there was a chance that it worked, a juice cleanse was hardly life-threatening. A little diarrhea never killed anyone.
Except all those pioneers, she thought with a stifled laugh.
“Great!” Dr. Beynar said. “We’ll make you a follow-up appointment for next week.”
As Evelyn waited through the seven long days, she justified herself. It was free. It might work. And as she drank the thick, syrupy concoction a week later, she kept justifying. And anyway, what did she have to feel guilty about? It wasn’t like she was drinking coffee.
It would have been difficult for Evelyn to describe what Dr. Beynar did to her during the procedure, since she could hardly remember anything about it. She remembered the drink having the flavor and consistency of cough-syrup phlegm. She remembered the doctor drawing on her body. Not just the marks for where the nips and tucks should be, but circles and symbols in Sharpie. Strange things like little pictures. Women’s voices. Dr. Beynar assuring her that she would be okay and home in time to start dinner.
The rest was all still frames from a stopped movie.
Laying down on a comfortable mat in a dark room, a few candles here and there.
Dr. Beynar standing over her, hands dripping red. Her face waxy, like a mask.
Voices whispering in a strange language, low and hollow, and echoing off the walls of the room as if they weren’t in a strip mall but a cave a thousand miles below the earth’s surface.
And then she was awake, lying in the exam room.
She sat up and groaned at the soreness of her stomach—like she’d been doing crunches for an hour. Her clothes were all on, the marks gone. She patted her body, looking for other changes, but the only other difference she noticed was that her tongue now tasted like DMV carpet.
“Evelyn,” Dr. Beynar knocked on the door, then opened it. “How are you feeling?”
“Thirsty,” she admitted. “And a little weird.”
Dr. Beyner handed her a glass embellished with a lemon wedge. “You need electrolytes and water. Then you’ll feel better.”
Evelyn nodded, sipping at the sugary water. It barely masked the taste and smell from her own mouth.
“So, did it work?”
“That’s up to you,” Dr. Beynar said. “The chemical processes are working, but what we did today is just a catalyst. You’re going to need to drink a lot of water, rest a bit. And you’ll need to tell a lie.”
“A lie.” Her brain caught on the word like a stocking snagged on nail.
“A lie is a good, simple way to start. But if that makes you uncomfortable, try something else. For a day, don’t hold the door open for someone. Don’t offer to drive carpool. Save some of that energy instead of giving it away. It’s up to you whether or not you want to see results”
“Why do I need to—?”
Dr. Beynar smiled. She warmed the stethoscope in her hand for a moment before putting it to Evelyn’s chest. “Like I said. You’ve given a lot of energy over the last forty-one years.” She sat back, satisfied with whatever she heard in Evelyn’s chest. “The procedure activated your cells to now take some of that energy back.”
“I don’t think I understand”
“That’s okay.” Dr. Beynar smiled. “You’ll figure it out.”
Evelyn left with a follow-up appointment card in her hand, feeling a bit embarrassed. Even robbed. Her stomach ached and her head felt foggy.
“This is stupid,” she muttered. Of course it had been fake. Some placebo psychology experiment to see if she could trick her brain into losing weight.
When Evelyn got home, she made pork chops and rice, running to the bathroom twice to throw up. Later, in bed, when Kevin asked her what was wrong, she told him she’d caught a stomach bug. He didn’t question her, and she didn’t feel particularly guilty. What she felt was a tightening at the corner of her eyes.
In the morning, when he told her how pretty she looked, she thanked him and explained about the new (lie) beauty serum she had bought. He nodded, then went back to reading his phone over his oatmeal. He kissed her goodbye, as usual, but did he linger on her lips the tiniest bit longer? She chastised herself as she waved him off. Of course not.
That morning, after Reggie had been put outside, she took her shower. Her hands trembled as she passed them over the skin on her stomach and the droop of her breasts. What had she expected, after all? A miracle? She didn’t really believe in miracles, not really real ones. She wasn’t that stupid.
But when she walked to the princess mirror, her breath caught in her throat. It was the same Evelyn, that was for sure. But the dark bags below her eyes had lightened just slightly. The nipples peaked up from where they had always stared straight down.
Maybe she did believe in miracles after all.
On Monday, she didn’t hold the elevator door for a woman who looked late for something. She lost two pounds.
On Tuesday, she told Peter that he had the raw talent to be a professional actor. He told her she was the best mom ever, and she gained one pound back.
On Wednesday, she picked out Kevin’s work clothes—the green and yellow tie that made her think of amoebas, and the red striped shirt she hated most. The lines around her mouth softened.
By Thursday, she thought she was getting the hang of it. There was a kind of logic to what Dr. Beynar said. Beauty was pain, but it didn’t have to be hers. As long as what she was doing was causing some kind of slight discomfort to someone else, it recharged her.
On Sunday, she went to church wearing a new dress she’d bought with a little money borrowed from Jinnie’s preschool bakesale fundraiser—after all, she’d baked the goshdang things. Several of her friends stopped her in the hall to comment on how good the dress looked on her.
When she bowed her head during sacrament, she thought of the lies. They were small, not even something that God had time to bother with. As long as it didn’t stop her from paying tithing or skipping church, she doubted her little juice cleanse even made it on His radar.
After three weeks, Evelyn had gotten so good at her beauty routine that she was seven pounds lighter, nine if she’d just woken up and not eaten yet. The two angry concern lines between her eyebrows had nearly disappeared, and her breasts had started looking straight ahead again. Not perfect, by any means, but definitely better. All it took was just a few little random acts of chaos every day.
“Forgetting” to pick up Peter from play practice.
Not volunteering to help at the chili cookoff.
Switching out the Miracle Whip for the greasy Walmart mayo that Kevin hated.
Every small thing counted towards her goals. She never said it out loud, but it made it easier to think of them that way. Her calories. Mean calories.
Then it all stopped.
After over a week of no improvement, she knew she had to do something drastic. Desperate, she went to the grocery store, intent on doing something—anything—to make an improvement. When she saw the older lady reaching for the last can of whipped cream, she snaked it out of her reach in time to see the little moue of shock on the woman’s leathery face.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she lied. “It’s my son’s homecoming.”
The woman stiffened, then smiled thinly. “I understand. Take it, please.”
As Evelyn tossed it in the garbage, making sure the woman saw her, she willed her body to respond, but nothing. Evelyn went to her follow-up appointment defeated.
“Is this it?” she asked through her tears as Dr. Beynar patted her shoulder. “I mean, it’s better, but I wanted more than just better, you know?”
“Well,” Dr. Beynar said, “There’s another option. You could become a consultant.”
Evelyn pulled back. “What do you mean? Like Mary Kay?”
“Kind of.”
Something about the thought of selling whatever she had bought seemed . . . too much. She shook her head. “No, I don’t think I have it in me. I couldn’t even sell Girl Scout Cookies. And I’m pretty sure they’re full of crack.”
Dr. Beynar laughed. “Suit yourself, but the offer is on the table. Besides,” she said, her voice taking on a more authoritative tone, “everyone plateaus. If you want the big results, you have to think bigger.”
“Okay, like what? I mean, like, burn dinner on purpose?”
Dr. Beynar gave her a thoughtful pat on the arm. “Remember, the first step of creation is destruction. To build someone up, sometimes you have to break them down first. Maybe you know someone who could benefit from a little well-placed destruction?”
Evelyn had met Kelly at church. She was a hospice care worker who moonlighted as a bad fantasy writer. She was overweight, cranky, and smelled like cats. More specifically, it smelled like one cat—Kelly’s only living companion, Rickets. He was an angry, half-blind thing that was as disease-ridden as his name suggested.
“You look great,” Kelly said when Evelyn came by for her weekly visit. Kelly had a sour tone in her voice, some mixture of dejection and jealousy. “What are you doing? Pilates or something?”
She cradled Rickets in her meaty arms. The cat struggled away from her clutches to rub his bony, scabby face on Evelyn’s leg. She repressed the desire to kick him (at least 300 mean calories alone) and instead gave him a perfunctory scratch on the head.
“Oh, it’s just this beauty place,” Evelyn said, sipping her cup of tea. “Over by the tanning salon on 1500 South. I got a great deal.”
They made small talk for a while, then Kelly excused herself to the bathroom. Evelyn put out the special food that she’d tucked in her purse. Something specially made for Rickets—tuna fish Fancy Feast with a side of rat poison.
Creation always begins with destruction.
It wasn’t until the next day when Kelly called, completely destroyed, that Evelyn had second thoughts.
“I don’t know what happened,” Kelly sobbed. “He was fine, but then he was twitching and coughing up blood . . . it was horrible.”
“That sounds awful.” She imagined the poor thing, writhing in agony, a sudden image of its tiny jaw flecked with blood and foam. She felt her stomach hitch. Evelyn had to sit down. It was all too terrible, wasn’t it? But, she had good reasons for all of it. “He was such an old cat, though,” she said.
Kelly sobbed. “He was my best friend. He was always there for me, even when I was sick, he would sit on my legs. Like he knew I was in pain.”
Evelyn took a breath and dug in harder. She cared for Kelly. That’s why all of this needed to happen. She laid a hand against her shirt, feeling the muscles where flab had been. She snatched her hand away as if it had been burned.
“Y-yes,” she stuttered, “but now you can focus on getting your life together. Rickets took so much of your time—”
It had all been for Kelly. She was sure of that. She had been a good friend.
“Maybe,” Kelly’s voice was far away. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”
“I am sorry,” Evelyn said. There was a part of her that really believed that. She hadn’t wanted to cause any real pain.
The phone went dead and Evelyn dropped her phone on the bed.
That night, Evelyn and Kevin made the kind of insane, passionate love that she remembered from when they were first married. But it wasn’t love, it was sex. The dirty, raw stuff that she’d seen on Peter’s computer.
She didn’t need to look in the mirror to see the results from what she’d done. She saw them in Kevin’s eyes.
It was about four months after the cleanse that she realized that she actually didn’t like her husband very much at all.
The complaining. The nagging. And although he told her how much he supported her dreams, he’d always snicker when she’d pick up the Nikon 28Ti and talk about starting her own business.
How long had it been since she’d headed out somewhere, a tank full of gas, the camera bag packed full of lenses, a sandwich tucked into her purse? How long had it been since she’d captured some kind of magic?
So she found herself at a laundromat at the southernmost part of downtown Salt Lake City. The handpainted sign was like out of a 1950s brochure, all curly art nouveau—Big Jenny’s Wash World—tagged with graffiti and littered with human trash. It was unique. It brought ideas into her mind. Who might be in a place like that? What kinds of stories would they have to tell?
She walked in, framing the dilapidated machines and the cracks in the linoleum in her mind, trying to find an angle that would capture the homeless camp just across the road. But then a man sauntered in, carrying a duffel bag of laundry over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. His eyes caught hers, summing her up and dismissing her. They were black agate—cold and hard as they glanced at her before disappearing through the laundromat door.
She knew she had to take his picture.
Muscles rippled beneath his t-shirt as he loaded his clothes into the washing machine, his skin sandy, his hands rough. He was the kind of man that you might put on the cover of a romance novel that had more dirty scenes than clean ones. Still, everything about him was so clean. Even his goatee was cut in razor-sharp lines.
She stumbled over her introduction, then asked if he would pose for her.
He looked her up and down as if she were a slab of meat.
“You wanna take my picture. Why?” His open button-down shirt fluttered in the laundromat circular fan, his white tank top taut against his chest. She caught a glimpse of some kind of strap across his shoulder. The butt of a gun.
Evelyn suddenly realized she had somewhere else to be.
“Nah, wait.” He smiled at her, grabbing her hand lightly. “Hey. I’ll be in your picture. But it’ll cost you a phone number.”
She took his pictures that day in the laundromat. Annie, the black lady who owned the place, even posed for a few. Evelyn came back the next weekend to find him waiting for her. After that, all the pictures she took were of him—Benito. That was what she knew of him—all she knew of him—before she went with him to his small, trashy apartment on the ugliest side of town.
His coffee table was covered in blocky packages and tiny plastic baggies. The kitchen cabinet was full of guns. And when she kissed him, none of it mattered. She forgot that she was a wife and mother. She forgot anything but what it felt like to be wanted and worshiped.
It was hard to go to church after that. Of course, she didn’t really know how much of it she’d ever really believed, now that she thought about it.
She came up with lots of excuses to go to Benito’s. She told Kevin that Kelly needed extra help lately, although she hadn’t seen Kelly since the cat had died. She’d called a few times and Kelly had been “in a depression,” but with Kelly, that was pretty much everyday life.
When she was in Benito’s small, badly-lit apartment, surrounded by the “friends” who came and went, piles of drugs and money, it was easy for Evelyn to become intoxicated with who she was with him. No longer a mother and wife. A courtesan. A lover. But then she had to go back home, and she resented them for pulling her back into the mundane. She snapped at Jinnie’s preschool fits and Peter’s teenage petulance.
“You’re like, too pretty to be a mom,” Peter complained. “All the guys are talking about it.”
He looked at her, then down at his feet. There was something in his look. Not like embarrassment, more like disgust.
“You want me to be uglier?” She raised an eyebrow, then touched the line she’d caused. She was trying to be careful about that. Every wrinkle cost her something. Mean calories. She was trying to cut down.
“Just more like a mom.”
Peter trudged up the stairs, not looking back.
Evelyn was speechless. Peter was right. And it was exhausting thinking of ways to get her calories in without hurting Kevin and the kids. Every day, the calories got meaner, the choices more clearly wrong. She looked in the mirror on the kitchen wall. She was so pretty—no, beautiful. The color high in her cheeks, her hair dark as bitter chocolate, skin like silk. She felt a shudder and turned away. She wanted to tell herself it wasn’t worth it. But it was.
Jinnie hummed a snatch of some Primary song and kicked at the back of Evelyn’s seat as they drove through the posh neighborhood above Draper. The temple loomed over it like an all-seeing eye. Evelyn’s nerves were already on edge, and she tried to relax as they trolled past the McMansions and Escalades looking for the address that Benito had given her.
The car told her she’d arrived.
She pulled the car past the palatial home and put the e-brake on. The package sat on the back seat, strapped in with two seatbelts. It was a heavy thing that Jinnie had already mentioned several times “smelled like farts.”
“Where are we, Mommy?” Jinnie whined. “Are we going to play at my friend’s house?”
“No, Jinnie,” Evelyn grated. Mommy just has to do one bad thing, she thought. Just one thing and then she won’t have to do anything mean to you or Peter all week long. Isn’t that good? Isn’t that a good Mommy? “Just be quiet. I’ll be right back.”
“But I’m scaaaared,” she said. “I don’t wanna!”
Evelyn slammed the door closed, her muscles all jangly and tight. This was dangerous. And definitely out of her league.
Benito had asked her to drop off packages before. It was an easy way to fulfill her beauty regimen. Like tweezing eyebrows. These small, unfortunate acts were the pain that were the cost of her beauty. And since she’d started dropping them off, her breasts had actually grown into a full D-cup. So whatever was in the packages wasn’t good.
And this one smelled especially not good. Like sulfur.
I shouldn’t be here. They’ll see the license plate. They’ll have cameras on the door. One of those doorbell thingies that scans your eyes or something.
She walked down the block to where the house was, the package in her shaking hand looking like a very early Christmas present. The driveway seemed endless, the lawn perfectly and flawlessly green. The custom stonework beneath her shoes made the walkway look like carpet.
She placed the package carefully on the front stoop.
There was a snick of a lock. Evelyn whirled away, skipping down the steps as fast as she dared.
“Thank you!”
Evelyn turned to see a balding man in a bathrobe waving at her. He looked like her dad, but much healthier and happier.
She waved back quickly. “You’re welcome!”
Evelyn ducked around the corner, walking hurriedly back to her car and her shouting toddler. She opened the door and flung herself inside, gunning the engine.
Tear stains laced Jinnie’s cheeks, “You left me. Why did you leave me, Mommy?”
“I had to do it, baby, but we’re done now.”
Evelyn pressed the gas too hard, jerking the car into motion.
“But I couldn’t see you, where were—”
Evelyn pulled out past the house, back down the road. Everything about this was wrong. She shouldn’t have come here, it was a bad idea. She didn’t dare wonder what was in the package. She couldn’t ask those questions, besides it was too late—
There was a muffled boom from behind them, a terrible sound that Evelyn felt more than she saw. Her stomach dropped, her throat turned acid. That hadn’t been a package of weed or coke or whatever Benito usually gave her—
“Mom. Mommy! What was that noise?” Jinnie’s little voice was panicky and strident. “Mommy. Did you hear that? Mom—”
“Not now, Jinnie.”
Evelyn’s voice was reedy and raw. She wanted to go back, to see what she’d done, but she couldn’t. Whatever had happened, that was her fault. She drove too fast, sweat pouring from her armpits, Jinnie’s frantic questions matching the sound from inside her own head. What was the big noise? What had been in the package? Her bowels felt watery and she knew that if she thought too much about what she’d done, she’d start hyperventilating.
What have I done, what have I done . . .
“Mommy, where are we going? Mommy?”
Evenly drove faster and faster, thinking of the man in the bathrobe. He had looked like her dad. Was he alive? Would anyone believe that she hadn’t known what was in the box?
“Mommy, Mommy, you’re going too fast. MOMMY!!”
“Jesus Christ, Jinnie, shut up!! Just SHUT. THE HELL. UP!!”
The words were like a gunshot. Evelyn put a hand to her mouth.
Jinnie’s tiny rosebud lips snapped close, her face in the rearview mirror went pale. There was a look in her eyes. The look Evelyn had seen Jinnie give a stranger before the girl would cling to her leg or hide in her shoulder.
But this time, Evelyn was the stranger.
Jinnie’s face crumpled, turning to tears as she began to wail.
Evelyn pulled the car over, her hands shaking. She climbed into the backseat and cradled her crying child. “I’m so sorry,” Evelyn sobbed “I’m . . . I’m so sorry . . .”
“You . . . said . . . a bad word.” Jinnie’s voice hitched, snot running from her nose.
“I’m so sorry. Mommy shouldn’t have done that.”
Mommy shouldn’t have done that. Mommy shouldn’t have done any of this.
Jinnie looked up for a moment, searching Evelyn’s face, wiping her nose with her hand. Maybe trying to find her mother beneath the mask of what Evelyn had become. There was a flash of recognition. Jinnie burst into tears again and clung to Evelyn.
“It’s okay Mommy,” Jinnie said, her voice snuffling “It’s okay. I forgive you.”
Evelyn held her baby to her heart and cried, feeling the guilt and grief leak out like poison. After all she’d done, after all she’d been, Jinnie had forgiven her in that blink of a moment. Whatever God was, whatever faith was, Evelyn didn’t know anymore. But if Jinnie could forgive her, there had to be a way to make it right. To stop whatever Dr. Beynar had done to her once and for all.
“I just wanted to thank you,” Evelyn said, the lies coming so easy now. It was strange to think that it all started with just one. Just like Dr. Beynar had said it would. “For everything.”
Dr. Beynar gave that brilliant smile, and took the package in the pretty yellow paper and the pink bow. It was heavy, and doused in perfume. Evelyn’s heart pounded in her chest, sure that Dr. Beynar could smell the sulfur.
Evelyn wondered what they must look like from the outside—two beautiful women sitting across from each other in a strip mall office. But in reality Evelyn and Dr. Beynar (if that was her real name at all) were monsters on the brink of mutually assured destruction. The air curdled around them, sour and strange.
“Oh, Evelyn,” Dr. Beynar whispered, her eyes too wide, her face too pale. “You shouldn’t have.” She shook the box heartily, and Evelyn felt chills across her skin. She swallowed.
Dr. Beynar laughed. “I always knew you would become a consultant.”
“What are you talking about?” Evelyn said.
“You know how multi-level marketing works, Evelyn. It’s all about the people under you. People who are willing to put in the work. People who are willing to take risks and make sacrifices.”
Dr. Beynar leaned in close, the tongue forked and slippery fluttering against her cheek like one of Jinnie’s butterfly kisses. “People just like you.”
Evelyn’s stomach turned, her muscles locked. She could hear something inside of Dr. Beynar, some kind of creaking. Old bones.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The words felt like bricks. Evelyn wondered if she could move if she tried. The sweet smell from the office was thick, and it seemed to immobilize her.
“Oh, I think you do.” Dr. Beynar’s face, now plastic and ill-formed, betrayed something wet. It seeped in at the edge of the mouth and eyes. “All it takes is one person, Evelyn. That’s how we breed. The bottom gets bigger and it feeds the top. And when you move up a level, so do I.”
There was a strange rending sound, liquid and popping, like ripping a raw chicken in half. The face of Dr. Beynar grinned so wide that the skin tore at the mouth. There was a shudder from her body, a spasmodic flailing of limbs. Then, something small and black, like a child’s burned fingers emerged from between the perfectly white teeth.
Evelyn could hear the small keening sound coming from the back of her own throat as if from far away.
This is not real none of this is real I’ve been drugged I’m hallucinating
Dr. Beynar wiped at the tear with a finger, a fingerprint of blood on her perfect skin, as if she were wiping cake crumbs. So dainty.
Evelyn finally found the strength in her body. She jumped up from the chair, and grabbed the box. She tore at the lid, not caring that it would be the end. It felt liquid beneath her hands. She grabbed it with both hands, forcing it open, her screams swallowed by the flash and burn of the bomb.
There was a half-second like an aeon when the tally of her choices rang through her body, slicing it, paring it. The ultimate evil and also the ultimate good. The bomb seared her body, scalding her flesh, tearing her apart. And at the same time, whatever she was, whatever Dr. Beynar had made her, sewed her back together again.
From behind her, she could hear Dr. Beynar’s laugh turning into a hollow scream, like wind in a hurricane. It stayed with Evelyn long after she ran from what the news called “a tragic accident.” It stayed long enough to tell Evelyn what to do next.
When Kelly opened the door, Evelyn could immediately see the change. Kelly’s sallow hair was sleek. Her piggish eyes open and shining. She had lost at least thirty pounds, maybe more. Her skin was clear and the pooch of her belly was slim.
Evelyn felt the smile come to her lips without bidding it. Her new body did that sometimes. As if the perfect exterior had a mind of its own. She caught a glimpse of herself in Kelly’s new mirror. Perfect. Truly. The shift of skin around her eyes, the slight way her muscles felt as though they were puppet strings? The price of beauty, that’s all it was.
“You look great, Kelly,” Evelyn said. “How are you feeling?”
Kelly smiled. It was a hungry, greedy smile. “Good. I feel really good. But I kind of stopped, you know . . .” She looked at her stomach, squeezing a roll of fat in her hands. Pinching.
Evelyn laughed. The voices in her head laughed, too. They were ahead of her, around her. Remembering, somehow. Kelly was the one, all right. Kelly would push her to the next level.
“That’s okay, Kelly,” Evelyn said. “Everyone plateaus. What you need is to think bigger.”
Evelyn felt the slither of the others beneath her skin, wrapping her tight. Faceless women, countless women, laughing hollow and high like crows in winter.
Soon she would be the top of the pyramid. Soon.
Not the top, Evelyn, the voices whispered, the new geography of her internal organs shifting, molting. We all learn the hard way—this pyramid points all the way down.
Willow Dawn Becker is an award-nominated editor and writer from Oregon. She has published over 100 nonfiction and fiction pieces in markets like Space & Time Magazine and Black Fox Literary Magazine. Her most recently co-edited anthology, Mother: Tales of Love and Terror, was a finalist for the 2022 Bram Stoker Award for Excellence in an Anthology. You can find her novel, Leto’s Children: Book 1 of the Leto Trilogy online at WeirdLittleWorlds.com. Learn more about Willow at WillowDawnBecker.com, or find her on Instagram or Twitter.
