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“Normal.”

“Yes. Normal.” He looked relieved that I understood. I kind of understood, but I suppose I didn’t have to understand too much to get paid a grand for acting like a Hollywood wife. “Do you think you can do it?”

“Absolutely,” I said, trying to sound like a confident actor. “Tell me more about Susan.”

Rien

I dumped the used scalpels, forceps, and retractors into a vat of antiseptic fluid to sterilize them. The incinerator roared, the rumble mixing with the sound of the music playing overhead. I fished a pair of forceps out of the vat and used it to take out the claustrum from the resin. My little plastic piece of brain. I put it in the heater to cure.Bake at 400 degrees for a half-hour, or until crisp and delicious.

The last album on the playlist started, and I knew I only had a couple of hours left before my next clients came in. I looked around to make sure everything was clean. White tile. New surgical drapes and sheets on the operating table. Check, check, check. I showered. I dressed. I burned my old clothes in the incinerator. Then I went to check on Bob’s brain.

After I took the brain tissue out of the oven, I flicked it with my fingernail to make sure it was hardened all the way. Done. It looked like a pink-gray scrap of Kleenex now, and it was ready to add to the others.

I ducked through the door into the waiting room, with its white tile and leather chairs. The waiting room was at the back of my house, only accessible through the alleyway. I’m a very private plastic surgeon. The pinnacle of discretion.

I took the latest edition ofReader’s DigestandBetter Homes and Gardensfrom the mailand set them out on the coffee table. Then I took Bob’s little plastic brain tissue and put it inside the glass globe. I tilted my head and peered at the mass of brain tissues, all leaning against each other. Like they were talking to each other.

The word claustrum means “hidden away.” I think it’s fitting that my secret trophies end up smack dab in the middle of my waiting room, masquerading as modern art. I moved Bob’s piece a little to the left so that it abuts the glass. So you could see the main crinkle of his brain from the outside. Yes, that looked much better.

All that work, and everyone just thinks they’re little blobs of plastic. Such a shame.

I looked at the clock. It was almost time.

Sara

“So what’s my motivation?”

“Motivation?”

I only had a few hours to prepare for the role. We spoke in the back of the car privately and I took notes on Susan.

Part of method acting is sinking into the role completely. When you take on a character, you’re not simply acting like the character. Youarethe character. I quizzed Gary on every little detail about his wife that I thought I should know, from her favorite foods and TV shows to her childhood pets. Not surprisingly, Gary didn’t know everything about his wife. Little wonder they were on the skids. But I would do the best with what I had.

“You know, my motivation. Desires.”

“Desires?”

“Gary, I can’tbecomeSusan unless I know what she wants. What’s her driving motivation? What are her goals?Mygoals? Maybe I want to be a good wife?”

Gary snorted. Okay, so that one was out.

“I need something to work with,” I said.

“Alright, how’s this? Your motivation is to suck all of the money out of the business and spend it on pedicures and antique furniture while your husband works overtime for you. Your goal is to flirt with every pool boy and waiter and pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about when I confront you at night. Your desire is to appear to the world like you’ve got it all—the loving family, the mansion on the hill, the high-powered career—even though you have a cold, hateful, spite-filled heart that doesn’t let anyone else in. You’re a shitty wife and an even shittier businesswoman, and you stab anyone in the back if they’re not looking.”

Whoa. I guess Gary and Susan really were fighting.

“Okay, then,” I said, pretending to take notes. “Got it. Unhappy marriage, pretending like everything’s good.”

“That stupid bitch,” Gary seethed, looking out at the pedestrians along Hollywood Boulevard.

“Can I ask you something?” I asked, hoping to change the subject. “About the surgery procedure?”

“What?”

“You said that I would be the medical trustee if anything goes wrong. So what do you want me to do if anything goes wrong?”

“Nothing will go wrong.”

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