Chin-Sun Lee
1. THE DISPATCHSoon You’ll Be Just Like Us
Wednesday, November nineteenth, the morning I’m scheduled to see my new face. Alice comes to my room, and for the first time, leaves the door unlocked—in fact, wide open. She has me strip and put on an examination gown. Then she pulls my hair back with a wide stretchy band and wipes my face clean with an emollient cloth. When she’s done, she says brightly, “So, are you excited?”
“Yes. No. More like terrified.” I haven’t slept at all.
I’ve been in this room for six and a half weeks. There are no mirrors or windows. Checking in, I had to turn in all my possessions with reflective surfaces, including my phone. A vintage plastic cordless is on my nightstand, next to a stack of Korean magazines, all with pretty, smiling young women on the cover, as if to reassure me: Soon you’ll be just like us.
The night before, I kept touching all the contours of my face, trying to imagine its final shape. My jaw, nose, and chin feel smaller, my mouth definitely fuller. I don’t need a mirror, at least, to see the changes in my body. I’ve marveled at the trimness of my hips and thighs, the flatness of my belly. When I twist around, I can see the new, pronounced curve of my butt. My breasts are now a full 34-C cup, the incisions under each barely visible. They look and feel natural, the nipples still sensitive. Touching them for the first time, I had the twin sensations of being fondled while caressing a stranger. Then I dropped my hands, suddenly fearful of being watched.
Dr. Moon walks into the room and says, “Good morning, Lily. Should we proceed with getting you discharged?” Two nurses, Ryung and Minsoo, trail after him, wheeling in a tall cumbersome apparatus. After a moment, I realize it’s a folded three-sided mirror. The matte back of one panel faces me.
“Morning, Doctor. Yes, let’s,” I say, feigning levity.
He pulls up a chair and peers at me minutely, gently pressing along my nose, cheeks, jawline. I observe him too, in silence. His face is olive-skinned, coarse and severe. I wonder why he hasn’t had some work done himself. Lots of men have in recent years, especially the successful ones—although, conversely, there is a faction of the very powerful who wear their craggy, imperfect faces as a badge of pride, proof of their impunity.
“You’ve healed very well,” he says. “There’s still some bruising and swelling along your jaw, but that should be gone in another two, three weeks. Do you still feel numbness here?” he asks, tapping my lips.
“A little.”
“You’ll get used to it. I recommend follow-up injections every six to eight months. As far as exercise: go light at first. L.A. Bodyworks on Woodman has trainers experienced with post-surgical patients.”
“Should I be writing this down?”
“It will all be in your release instructions.” He goes on to list my dietary dos and don’ts, emphasizing disciplined eating and exercise.
“Understood,” I say, beginning to feel impatient.
He stands, nodding to the nurses, and they start to unfold the mirrored panels.
“Come see your new face, Lily.”
I look up to see his proud expression. This above all is reassuring. I stand and walk toward the mirror. From the corner of my eye, I glimpse a stranger in a hospital gown.
Someone rushes to my side, steadying me. “Lily?” Alice says. “I’m here. It’s okay.”
“Gen chana,” Ryung echoes, taking my other arm as they lead me to the mirror. “Yeppeuda, okay?” And then, for emphasis, “Areumdapda.”
Beautiful. She is calling me beautiful, and the impossibility of that fact finally compels me to lift my eyes.
The shape of my face is completely altered—oval instead of square, my jaw and chin delicately pointed. My nose still has a bridge but it’s smaller and thinner. My lips are cushy and pouty, even with my mouth gaping in shock. “Holy shit,” I whisper. Something inside me cracks open, and everything floods in: relief, awe, and a strange kind of terror. How the hell did he do it? I stretch my mouth, smile and frown, observing my new expressions. Then I lean in close to examine my eyes. They’re larger, with a pleasing fold on the upper lid, but still long and almond-shaped, as I requested. Not the big doe eyes of the template. Staring into the depths of my pupils, I recognize myself. Except for my jaw and chin, I can see the genesis of my original features. I look completely different, but as I keep staring, not entirely unfamiliar.
Minsoo comes up behind me, smiling. “You’re so pretty, Uhn-nee,” she says, calling me by the respectful, affectionate term they use. It means “sister.” I see our four faces in the mirrored panels, the different angles reflected and multiplied. And it’s true. We look like sisters. We could all be sisters.
2. BUREAU INVENTORYMoleskine notebooks
Sharpwriter #2 mechanical pencils
Index cards for outlining
Glass of water
Shitty printer
King cake baby
Martha Graham’s letter to Agnes DeMille
Sometimes, my cat (see him flashing his posterior)
3. BIOGRAPHYChin-Sun Lee's work has appeared in The Adroit Journal, The Rumpus, Joyland, The Doctor T.J. Eckleburg Review, and The Believer Logger, among other publications. She’s also a contributor to The New York Times bestselling anthology Women in Clothes (Blue Rider Press/Penguin 2014). She has received fellowships from The Hambidge Center, Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, Brush Creek Foundation for the Arts, and the Playa Artist Residency, and an MFA in Creative Writing from The New School. More at www.chinsunlee.com.