Seven Sons

Chapter Two

I’ve never left the country before, but I’m not worried.  The night of my twenty-first birthday, I don’t party, but arrive in Thailand after a long and cramped flight from the U.S. I have lost time, and it is already morning in Bangkok. I travel directly to the hospital where I will be having my procedure – this isn’t a sightseeing holiday, after all. I’m not here for fun. 

I’m here to be reborn.

The staff are efficient and discreet. I am admitted and the surgeon goes over the final computer-enhanced photographs which show what I’ll look like after. 

Before the surgery, I go into the private ensuite and strip down. I have a moment of unexpected sadness as I study myself one last time. I’ve already colored my strawberry blonde hair a deep chestnut brown, but apart from that, this is how I was born. I look exactly like my mother. Tall, skinny, no boobs, green eyes. A light smattering of freckles across my nose is the only thing I got from my father, and a laser is about to burn them off forever. My nose, once regal and thin, now sits crooked, thanks to Dornan breaking it six years ago. It never healed properly, and it is the main reason I cannot stand my own appearance. 

But now, standing here like this, so completely naked and alone, I shed a single tear. For my father. For the little girl I used to be, who had everything ripped away.

I shed a tear because she is about to die, six years after she cheated death.

I wipe the tear away and put on my blue hospital gown, tying it at the back.  Leaving the cubicle, I enter the room where my procedures will be performed. Twelve hours is all it will take to make me into a completely new person – a new nose, new skin, porcelain veneers on my teeth, fuller cheekbones, and new boobs. I wanted them to remove the scars on my hip, but the laser regimen would take months against all that messy scar tissue. Instead, I’ll get a tattoo when I’m back in the States.

As I lay down on the operating table, a nurse hovers over me, a mask in her hand. Before she can lower it, the doctor motions for her to wait.

“Last chance,” he says to me. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?” He is an excellent surgeon, and from what I have gleaned, a kind family man. Although he is Asian, he reminds me of my father. There is a patriarchal kindness in his eyes that I haven’t seen in a long time.

“Positive,” I say, gesturing for the nurse to lower the mask.

“You’re going to look beautiful,” the surgeon says, and a few moments later, everything goes black.

It takes me two weeks to recover enough from the surgery to move around freely, and one month before I resemble a regular human being. I spend my time poolside at the most expensive hotel in Bangkok, attended by nurses who check on my healing wounds and waiters who serve me drinks with umbrellas.

The entire time, I seethe inside, the same way I have seethed for the past six years. What was born as fear and grief has long since blossomed into hatred and rage. Five weeks after my surgery, I return to the USA, hail a cab at LAX, and direct the driver to Venice Beach.

Finally, after six long years, I will have my revenge.